


Shafts of Light

by silverfoxstole



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29106723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxstole/pseuds/silverfoxstole
Summary: January 2021. England is back in Covid lockdown. Erik and Christine juggle home-working, home-schooling and a theatre that may never re-open, but through it all Christine knows that what’s most important is supporting each other.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. Here We Go Again

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features modern versions of the characters from my Beyond the Green Baize Door/Garish Light of Day universe but familiarity with of those stories isn’t necessary.
> 
> The idea popped into my head and now won’t leave me alone.

London, January 2021

"... _once again: stay home, protect the NHS, save lives_."

Christine turned off the television. "That's it, then. Here we go again."

With a sigh Erik got up and settled on the sofa at her side. She felt his arm tiin around her waist and held out for about twenty seconds before she turned and buried her face in the soft charcoal wool of his sweater. He pulled her close, long fingers stroking her hair as she tried desperately not to cry. "It will be all right," he said quietly. "We've done this before; we can do it again."

"It's not _fair_!" she exclaimed. "It was all supposed to be over by Christmas!"

"We knew that wouldn't happen; it was just fruitless optimism. But things are changing all the time, Christine, you must focus on that." He hugged her tightly then drew back a little and touched her chin, lifting her face so he could meet her gaze. "It _will_ be over eventually; we just have to ride this out."

She gulped, shaking her head and feeling herself trembling from the anxiety that had been building in her chest for the last few days. "Since when have you been the voice of reason in this relationship?"

"I have had to learn the hard way. Life's not fair, but that's the way it is."

"Isn't that a quote from _Labyrinth_?" Christine asked unsteadily, feeling in her pocket for a tissue. As always at these moments, a pristine white handkerchief was pressed into her fingers and she took it gratefully, thinking as wiped at her eyes that Erik must have been one of the last people in the world not to move over to Kleenex.

Her husband arched his one serviceable eyebrow. "I really have no idea. Is that the one with the flying bed and the possessed armour fighting the Nazis?"

"No, it is not, and you know it. It's goblins and David Bowie in disturbing trousers. Stop trying to distract me with classic kids' films," she told him. "What're we going to do? This time it could be six months of lockdown, not three."

"We will do exactly the same as before. It's just as well that we both have more than one career to fall back on and can carrying on working from home; many others are not so lucky."

She let her head droop onto his shoulder, feeling drained. The PM's announcement wasn't unexpected but it still came as a blow. She'd been desperately hoping another lockdown wouldn't be necessary, searching for stories of hope in the newspaper, obsessively waiting for the new case figures every day and poring over them to see how their area was fairing until Erik took her tablet away. It had all ultimately been for nothing; it seemed as though they were stuck in a horrible nightmarish time loop, going round and round forever. "The kids will have to be homeschooled again; Allegra only went back yesterday."

"I will take care of it."

Despite herself, Christine laughed. "Oh, yeah, right," she said and he looked affronted. "I remember how well that went last time."

"I fail to see the problem," he sniffed, all implied wounded dignity. "They kept up with their lessons."

"Only because _I_ made sure of it." He just looked at her and she rolled her eyes. "Erik, you have no patience! After half an hour they were coming to me saying that Daddy was shouting at the computer."

"It was malfunctioning. We need a new one."

She didn't believe that for a moment. " _And_ you expected Allegra to immediately grasp algebra without explaining it to her."

An elegant shrug. "A child of her age should understand basic mathematics."

" _Basic_? She's only nine, for goodness' sake! I was still having trouble getting my head round it at GCSE level," Christine remembered, inwardly shuddering even now at the thought of her battles with the hated numbers. "I know our daughter is intelligent, but please remember she's not Einstein."

Erik kissed the top of her head. "I will do my best. My mother has promised to help this time; she does have some experience, after all."

She glanced up at him in surprise; Angela had been allowed to join them for Christmas but there was no guarantee such contact would continue with infections climbing so quickly. "Can we do that?"

"I believe support bubbles are still permitted. I hope so; I don't want to think of her being alone in that house for another six months. We will find out for certain tomorrow." Christine hadn't realised she was still holding onto the TV remote for grim death until he very deliberately pried it from her grasp, discarding it on the coffee table. Sitting up straight he took her hands in his, balled-up hanky and all, and looked her in the eye. "We _will_ get through this, I promise."

"I know. It's just... hard to think so at the moment. Everything has changed so much in the last year; the world hardly seems like the same place. Will the theatre even still be viable when this is all over? So many friends are out of work, and the furlough scheme won't last forever - "

"Even I can't see the future," Erik said lightly. "We can only hope that pent-up demand will be enough once the audiences feel safe to return."

"It's just as well Meg's online exercise business has taken off; she'll have that to fall back on if we do have to close permanently," Christine mused. Meg's brand of perky enthusiasm had gone down well on YouTube during the first lockdown; her barre-based workouts were a popular alternative to Joe Wicks and the multitude of yoga instructors on the platform. "And you'll have time to finally finish that opera you've been working on for years."

He scratched the back of his neck, grimacing. "I doubt that particular project will ever be finished. We will, however, continue to work on your next album; we have only a few more pieces to decide on."

"It's 'our' album, not just mine. I told you I want this to be a proper collaboration, not my name on the cover and yours hiding somewhere in the sleeve notes. We might have completed the track listing six months ago if you didn't keep writing new songs," she pointed out. "Jimmy's been asking for a rough version to take to the record company for ages."

"One of the blessings of being forbidden visitors means he can't come here and harass me over it. When he calls I can at least ignore him."

She slapped his arm. "You horrible man. He's your friend as well as your agent."

"And a blasted nuisance at times." Erik sank back onto the sofa, pulling her with him. She kicked off her shoes and curled up, resting her head on his chest. It was still bony, even after all these years of trying to fatten him up. "I suppose this means you will be having more of those terrible Friday night Zoom calls with Meg and Theodora. I had better order in some more wine."

There was resignation in his voice and she shook her head. The online replacement for girls' night out had been a fun novelty to start with but sitting in the living room staring at a screen while looking at other people staring at theirs, the conversation either descending into confusion through talking over each other or becoming stilted because they were trying not to soon became wearing. When she'd started using the service for meetings and the children's schooling as well it had been the last straw and she was thankful when Meg suggested a regular old-fashioned telephone catch-up instead. Erik was lucky; even if anyone did want to have an online meeting with him he refused, and he had the clout to get away with it, his reputation as enigmatic and reclusive working in his favour. It was strange, Christine had thought more than once over the last year, to be suddenly living in a world where masks were so important when her husband probably knew more about living with one than anybody else.

"No," she said now. "But I _am_ going to listen to a hell of a lot of Enya. Just a friendly warning in case you want to hide down in the studio behind the soundproofing."

He chuckled. "There are worse things you could have chosen."

"Does that mean you're finally coming round to the Celtic new age sound?"

"If I am I'm probably twenty five years too late." He sighed. "Do you want to tell the girls this evening?"

Christine glanced at the clock. "Not Gigi; she's too young to really understand anyway. I'm sure Allegra will still be awake; she was buried in _The Animals of Farthing Wood_ when I looked in earlier. I suppose one of us had better tell her she won't be going to school tomorrow, always assuming she hasn't had a message from a friend about it already."

"If she has there will be trouble," Erik said darkly. "She knows I only tolerate that phone on the understanding it is turned off before bedtime."

"You can't blame the kids for wanting to communicate, Erik. It could be summer before they see each other again."

"The time will pass quickly enough. We must be grateful for the fact that she is self-reliant enough to have been taking the situation quite well."

"As far as we know she is. She has hidden depths." When he looked surprised she leaned in and kissed the end of his mangled nose. "She's too much like her father in that respect."

With an effort she dragged herself up. As she passed the television a sudden urge came over her to pitch the thing out of the window so that she would never have to sit there and listen to another lockdown announcement. It was stupid and irrational but it briefly made her feel better. Locking and bolting the door, cutting off the telephone and the internet and just hunkering down, forgetting the outside world, seemed like such an attractive idea. It would never work, of course, but it helped just to imagine it.

"Christine," Erik said as she reached the door. She turned back to find an earnestness in his gaze that she didn't see there very often. "It _will_ get better. As long as we're still here, still together: you, me and the girls, then that's all that matters."

She smiled, though it went wrong round the edges. "I know," she told him. "I know."


	2. Girl Talk

"Looks like it's lockdown haircuts again," Meg said ruefully. "It was bad enough last year; I'm going to look like Cousin It this time."

Christine laughed. "You could always ask your mother to trim it for you."

"Not likely; she'd hack off six inches given the chance. Her helpful contribution this morning was to suggest I put it in pigtails." Meg's fond irritation was audible; Christine could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "Thirty last birthday but I swear she thinks I'm still Gigi's age."

"I don't think we ever grow up as far as our parents are concerned. My Dad used to be as bad; he always insisted on grabbing my hand when we crossed the road well into my twenties."

"That's nothing; I can see Erik forbidding your two from crossing the road altogether." Meg deepened her voice, adopting a stern tone: "No, you can't go and play in the next street; it's far too dangerous. You will stay by my side forever."

"Meg, that's sounds nothing like him. And it's not fair. He's just a bit... protective, and you can't blame him. He didn't get the love and care he needed when he was growing up," Christine reminded her.

"Yes, all right, I'll let him off. Where is he, anyway? Hiding in the studio again? I suppose he loves being able to skulk around at home without having to speak to anyone; lockdown suits his personality down to the ground."

"He speaks to me. And your mother, though that's normally more of an argument," Christine sighed. "I don't know what she said to him yesterday but I heard the phone slam down. I wish she'd call him on the mobile, then I wouldn't have to listen to him nearly breaking the receiver."

"I only heard one side of the conversation but I think she may have been casting aspersions on his ability to produce decent online content for the theatre when he refuses appear in front of the camera. You know what she's like," Meg added quickly before her friend could speak. "And she does have a point when other directors are getting out there and trying to make themselves visible. Have you told him about that Facebook group yet?"

Sinking back into the cushions of the armchair Christine blew on the surface of her tea, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. On the other side of the room the television was playing a cookery show with the sound off; she made a mental note to look at the online shopping list later. "No, because I value my life," she replied, only half in jest. "And Madame knows exactly why he keeps himself aloof; I don't understand why she insists on antagonising him."

"I've come to the conclusion over the years that she must regard it as some sort of hobby. It's the only explanation."

Christine snorted. "Well, thank her for making me suffer the fall-out of her recreational activities. I'll send her the bill for a new bedroom telephone."

"I'll pass that on," Meg promised solemnly. "Seriously, Chris, what is Erik's plan when it comes to our day jobs? I know he's got fingers in all sorts of pies and you two are cooking up another Daae release, but when it comes to the stage we're all in the dark."

"Your guess is as good as mine," Christine told her, flicking the remote to change the channel. More cookery... a quiz show... something on Channel 5 about vets. "You know I tell you everything as soon as he lets me know. June was the last date he and Jimmy were throwing around when it came to reopening but it looks like even that might have to be delayed; it would be a miracle if we were allowed to have even a handful of people in before then."

Meg made a pained noise. "I hope we don't. I _hated_ those socially distanced trials we had. Sure, it was nice to see an audience again but there was zero atmosphere."

"Quite. I know it's hard but we're just going to have to hang on and see what happens."

"I feel a scream of frustration would be appropriate here but I'll restrain myself if only for the sake of your eardrums. Being patient is _not_ my forte."

"Oh, I know. And thanks; I've got some work to do in the studio tomorrow and I'll need my hearing," Christine said and Meg just laughed.

"Is the new album even close to being finished yet?" she enquired. "You've been messing about with it for ages."

"No; Erik can't leave it alone. Every time I think we've finally decided on the tracks he comes up with something else, and it's always better than what we've already got. I know he's a perfectionist but it's starting to get maddening," Christine admitted. "At this rate it won't be released this millennium and we need to build on the sales we got over Christmas; _Noël_ has been my biggest selling album so far, and most of them were bought last month."

"I thought you were throwing around the idea of a collection of show tunes?"

"Oh, that didn't last long with Mr Musical Snob in charge. I had a hard enough time convincing him to do the Christmas record."

"It's about time he came into the twenty-first century," Meg said firmly. "Hell, even the twentieth would do!"

"Believe me, I've spent the last decade trying. His mother would only have classical music in the house; he grew up knowing about Yehudi Menuhin and Andre Previn but was twenty-eight before he properly heard the Beatles. I don't even bother with modern music any more."

"I'm not surprised. I remember the Ed Sheeran incident; that would be enough to put anyone off."

"Exactly. I'm not - "The door opened behind her and Christine craned round to see Genevieve come running into the room, all glitter and unicorns as usual, aiming for her mother's lap. Allegra followed at a somewhat slower pace, frowning down at her phone through a tangle of curls, while Erik brought up the rear with a tray bearing two plastic beakers, a plate of biscuits and a coffee cup for himself. He raised his eyebrows and Christine mouthed 'Meg' which caused his gaze to shift heavenwards. "I'll have to go," she told her friend. "School's out."

"Ask her to tell her mother that I am changing my telephone number with immediate effect," Erik said as he sat down. His face was inscrutable and she wasn't entirely sure whether he was being serious or not.

"Did you hear that?" she asked Meg.

"Yep. The sooner this is all over and the two of them can have a blazing row face to face the better," the other woman replied. "This messenger is getting tired of being shot."

"Why're you always fighting with Nanna Giry?" Allegra asked her father when Christine had hung up the phone. "I heard you calling her an interfering old - "

"It's because he loves her," Christine interrupted swiftly, earning herself a glare from Erik. "He only bothers to argue with the people he actually cares about."

"She tells him off," Gigi giggled around the thumb she was sucking. "It makes him cross."

"She should know by now to mind her own business," Erik insisted, reaching for the remote. He swiftly flipped through the channels and Christine felt dizzy as panel shows, Rick Stein on a Cornish cliff top, hip-hop dancers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles whizzed by at lightning speed. " _I_ am in charge of that theatre, _I_ am the musical and artistic director and I will do as I see fit."

Allegra's attention was back on her Galaxy. "It's number 601 for the news, Dad." Christine tried not to smile; more than six months away from her tenth birthday, her eldest daughter already sounded like a world-weary teenager.

Erik frowned. "I thought I said that phone was to be put away? When we're together we look at each other, not at a screen."

"I'm just replying to Beth. It would be rude not to, wouldn't it?"

"Less of the cheek, thank you, young lady. I know exactly how long you spend on that thing; I get the bills, remember?" Two pairs of remarkably similar eyes met; Allegra gamely held her own but was the first one to blink. Christine had learnt years ago that there was no point trying to stare Erik down; he would always win. With a theatrical sigh she put the phone on the coffee table, pushing it towards her father. His long fingers scooped it up and it vanished into his pocket. "You can have it back tomorrow."

Allegra looked mutinous but she just nodded. Christine lifted an arm, inviting her for a cuddle, and after a moment's defiance for the sake of appearances she gave in and perched on the arm of the chair, snuggling up close. Growing up Allegra had always been a daddy's girl but there were starting to be more and more occasions when the fact that she was beginning to develop a will of iron not unlike her father's had begun to cause friction. Thankfully right now those moments didn't last long; Christine knew she would be back to wanting his attention before the evening was out.

"The TV is a screen," she muttered into her mother's shoulder, but Christine shook her head.

"Leave it," she said. "I agree with Dad. You know the rules."

The headlines unfolded in silence; before the main item began Erik switched off the set. The BBC's emphasis was often too harrowing, even in the early evening, and they were both keen to keep the worst details of the pandemic from the children. Christine didn't miss the fact that infections had climbed yet again and she tried to ignore the inevitable sinking feeling in her stomach. Instead she hugged her daughters and asked,

"How did your lessons go today?"

"Boring," was Allegra's assessment. "I hate Zoom classes. I can see my friends but I can't talk to them and Mrs Carter is like a robot; you can tell she's just reading off a sheet of paper."

"I shouldn't think it's easy for her, either; she's probably doing her best."

"I sometimes think teachers should have some sort of dramatic training," Erik mused. "They might consequently be more inspiring to their pupils."

Christine smiled. "Well, you certainly were."

"Yes." He coughed, his mouth twitching. "That was a different situation entirely."

"You never know, perhaps a module on theatrical techniques for online lessons will be added to the teacher training syllabus in the future. Stranger things have happened."

"That is very true." He was quiet for a few moments, as though contemplating something, and then he said, "What was the Facebook group that Meg mentioned when you were talking to her earlier?"

"How do you know about that?" she demanded, startling him. "Have you started tapping my phone calls?"

"No! As if I would - "

"Come on, Mum, Dad's a grump but he's not like _that_ ," Allegra told her.

"Thank you," her father muttered, looking slightly confused. "I think."

"Gigi knocked the extension in the study onto speakerphone; it was only on for a second. And anyway, _I_ know what the group is: it's called 'Erik Claudin Doesn't Exist' and it's got about five thousand members."

"And exactly when have you been looking at Facebook?" Christine enquired at the same time as Erik began in consternation,

"ʻErik Claudin Doesn't – ʼ"

Allegra rolled her eyes. "It's OK, I _know_ I'm too young to have an account. One of the older girls and school told me about it. Some of them know who my parents are," she added when they both looked surprised. "They've even asked me for your autograph, Mum. I said no, obviously."

"Obviously," Christine repeated, wondering whether she had a teenage fanbase she knew nothing about. She had always been told that her music appealed strictly to the middle-aged, middle of the road audience.

"And precisely what is the purpose of this group?" Erik asked in a dangerous tone. In reply Allegra just turned to her mother. "Christine?"

"I believe they... speculate about your identity. Well, can you blame them?" she asked when he started to protest. "No one ever sees you! Interviewers either think I have some scary Svengali behind me or I'm lying just to sound mysterious and sell a few more records. You even stay away from launches and first nights at the theatre."

"They think you're not real, Dad," Allegra told him. "Shauna told me they've even come up with a nickname for you."

He arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Should I brace myself to be insulted?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be in too much of a hurry," Christine said. Meg had told her about this, and she'd seen it for herself when she looked into the group. She smiled. "They're calling you the Phantom."


	3. A different perspective

"That must be an interesting angle from which to view the world."

Christine jumped, hands sliding on the mat despite the fact that it had been specifically described on the website as 'non-slip', and peered upside down through her legs. From here all she could make out of her husband was his neatly-pressed trousers and polished black shoes. She'd actually bought him new slippers and a pair of cosy pyjamas during the first lockdown, assuming that like everyone else he would embrace the loungewear ethos that had taken hold amongst the home working community, but while she was happy to spend most of her time in a hoodie and leggings he insisted on dressing every day as though he was still heading out to work, reminding her that after ten years of marriage she should be aware that he didn't really 'do' casual.

"It is," she said now, attempting to shift her hips up and back as the instructor was telling her and not lose her grip. It would be extremely embarrassing to end up in a heap on the floor in front of him. "You should try it."

"That is a very tempting invitation but I believe I will resist. Watching you is much more enjoyable," Erik replied, sounding far too amused for her liking. His footsteps sounded on the laminate flooring as he made his way to the sofa and sat down, his elegantly crossed legs now in her eye line. She could hear the newspaper rustling and the clink of a coffee mug on the table so he was obviously settling in for a while, the swine.

She huffed, blowing a few sweaty strands of hair away from her face and feeling like a physical wreck. "Don't you have anything better to do?" she asked hopefully, stepping one foot up into a wobbly lunge. "The kids would probably appreciate some time with their dad; you've been holed up in the study most of the day."

A page turned. "Daughter Number One is in the middle of an English assignment and when I last checked Gigi was quite happily playing buses on the stairs with her soft toy collection."

"What about those orchestrations you were working on?"

"All finished. I sent them over to the studio this morning, so that should keep James and the director quiet for a day or two." She could see him from this position; he was regarding her with a mixture of interest and confusion. "Are you all right? You're turning red."

"You say the nicest things, darling."

"I'm only concerned you might be straining yourself," he said. "It looks like it takes rather a lot of effort."

"I enjoy it. Or rather, I _was_ enjoying it when I didn't have an audience. I need to keep fit," she explained when he raised an eyebrow. "Since I gave up dancing and Meg and I stopped running together I've been getting out of shape. My stomach looks like I swallowed a beach ball."

"It looks like nothing of the sort. And you could meet Meg for a run; we are still allowed out for exercise."

"I know, but we have to be socially distanced and it's no fun when you have to keep avoiding other people all the time. The parks are too busy and I can't even run along the Thames path any more; it's always full of walkers, even first thing."

"So you decided to torture yourself instead. Interesting logic." Erik just watched her as she made her way down to the ground through a twist and the inevitable plank; under his scrutiny her transition was less than graceful, ending up as more of a belly flop than an elegant movement, before she pushed herself upwards and back again.

"It's yoga; Teddy recommended it. I'm learning to be at one with my breath," Christine told him, adding when he looked less than convinced, "Unfortunately, all the instructors are very fond of downward-facing dog. I spend more time in this position than anywhere else."

"Is that what it's called?" He chuckled. "Well, I certainly won't complain about the view."

She wiggled her backside at him, grateful when the cue came to lie down and relax. "You should get some exercise too, you know."

"I can assure you, I'm certainly not joining you in any downward dogs," Erik said quickly, retreating behind the newspaper. It occurred to her that she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him wear his mask. A few days before he'd unthinkingly opened the door to the grocery delivery man having completely forgotten his face was bare after so long inside the house; thankfully Christine intervened just in time and he'd beaten a swift retreat before the driver saw him and refused to return. They hadn't mentioned it but she knew he had spent a fair while cursing himself for his carelessness, something that would never have happened before they'd all been confined indoors. She, on the other hand, was just glad he'd come to feel so relaxed without the mask that he'd ceased to notice it was missing.

"I don't mean that," she replied. "Meg is going to have a dance session with the girls on Skype later which you're very welcome to join."

He just gave her a long, hard look and she grinned, rolling up to sit cross-legged on the mat and pinching his coffee when he returned his attention to the news. Taking a sip she grimaced; it was black with no sugar. "You could always get your own," he remarked and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"When was the last time you went for a walk?" she countered.

"About ten minutes ago. I walked down the stairs."

He was doing it deliberately, just to be irritating. "No, a proper walk, outside. I don't think you've left the house in weeks; you're getting a prison pallor."

"I didn't realise it was a legal requirement," he said, and she snorted. "I am perfectly content. My beautiful wife and two wonderful daughters are here; what more do I need?"

Christine shook her head, abandoning the floor in favour of the sofa beside him. She scooted closer, knowing it annoyed him when he was trying to read, to find that he was pretending to be interested in a piece about whether Instagram influencers should be posting photos of their exotic holidays in the middle of a pandemic. "You can't get round me like that, mister. You need exercise and fresh air."

"I most certainly do not. I am in peak condition."

She laughed at that. "Hardly! You've never been in peak condition in all the years I've known you. Anyway, being cooped up in the house all day is no good for any of us."

"Don't forget that I spent most of my formative years inside all the time," he pointed out. "I wasn't allowed to go out then, so I am quite used to it. And quite frankly the less time I have to spend around people I have no interest in the better."

Christine thumped him on the shoulder and he gave a theatrical wince. "You really are becoming a right old curmudgeon, aren't you? I'm only thinking of your health," she said, adding a plaintive note to her voice that successfully had him rolling his eyes and folding the paper, putting it aside to give her his full attention.

"I thought we agreed that in keeping away from those places likely to transmit the virus I was actually preserving my health," he reminded her.

"Yes, I know, but you could get out of the house sometimes, maybe later in the day, when it's quieter," Christine suggested. Although some work had been done over the years as surgical techniques improved to fix the nasal issues caused by Erik's deformity there were still problems that could not be rectified and which put him more at risk from respiratory infections; when covid first began to spread she had been beside herself with worry until the first lockdown which stringently required everyone to stay indoors was announced. Since then they had agreed that he would stay away from other people as much as possible, which he had been only too pleased to do. Whenever he did have to interact with anyone face to face she made sure that he was wearing both masks, fussing that to Erik's annoyance had been gleefully picked up on by Allegra and Genevieve, who enthusiastically added their voices to their mother's when it came to reminding him.

"When do you suggest?" he enquired archly. "Ten o'clock at night? Eleven, perhaps, or even after midnight? I have a feeling the police may be suspicious of a masked man aimlessly roaming the streets after dark. Perhaps if I put the cat on a lead - "

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. We could always get another dog," she tried, but he shook his head.

"Didn't we agree that it would be a mistake to buy a new pet during lockdown? I've seen horror stories of animals abandoned following the first one."

Christine sighed. "It wouldn't be like that, but yes, I suppose you're right." She glanced down at his stomach, where there was a slight curve visible above his belt, and felt her lips twitch in a mischievous smile. "We're going to have to do something drastic, though: you're getting a lockdown belly."

"I most certainly am not!" Erik sat up straight immediately, pulling back his waistcoat to examine the offending area for himself. Grinning now, Christine leant over and rubbed a hand over it, kneading the flesh with her fingers. He was always so skinny that even a slight protuberance, little more than a pound or two of weight gain on someone normal, was immediately obvious and nothing to worry about, but she wasn't about to tell him that. Pulling away from her he was on his feet, turning this way and that in front of the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece.

"I'll tell Meg you'll be joining us this afternoon, then, shall I?" she asked.

His response was unrepeatable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been doing near-daily yoga myself for the last few months, after a break of many years. The downward dogs are indeed interminable, but worth it!


	4. Snow Day

It wasn't until she had to switch on the light at nearly lunchtime on a Saturday to see her book that Christine realised how dark it had become outside. She'd got halfway to the window when the most enormous crack of thunder she had ever heard came from almost directly overhead, making her jump; as her heart leapt into her mouth, the next moment there was a scrabbling at the door handle and her daughters came flying into the room, Allegra inevitably bright-eyed and curious while Gigi made an immediate beeline for her mother's arms.

"Mum, did you hear that?" Allegra cried excitedly. "It's going to pour down any minute! I wonder if there'll be any lightning?"

"Don't like it," Gigi whimpered into Christine's jumper. "It's noisy!"

"I know, sweetheart, but it's nothing to worry about; just God banging his pots and pans," Christine said, stroking her hair. She still sometimes marvelled at the quirk of nature that meant her eldest had inherited the wild Daae curls while Gigi's dark locks were as straight and true as her father's, undisturbed by as much as a single wave. "It'll be over soon, I promise."

"I think it's gone already," Allegra reported from the window, sounding disappointed. She was kneeling on the sill, craning up to try and see what the sky was doing, losing one of her slippers in the process. "And it's not even raining."

Christine sat down on the bed and lifted Gigi onto her lap. She tickled the little girl's toes, making her laugh. "Good. We've had more than enough rain lately."

"I hate it when it thunders and then just goes away. It's not fair."

"You're as bad as your father; I think the pair of your revel in the dark side. Don't you like the sun?"

Allegra shrugged. "It's not as interesting." She was quiet for a few moments, nose pressed up against the glass, before she shouted, making her mother start all over again, "It's snowing!"

"What? It can't be - " Christine hurried over to see for herself, taking Gigi with her. Sure enough, fat white flakes were drifting thickly down, and at quite a speed. The patio below them was quickly becoming covered. "Goodness. It's laying, too."

"Thunder snow," Erik said from the doorway, the noise evidently having drawn him from the depths of the house into which he had descended straight after breakfast. He crossed the room to join them, leaning on the window frame. "A terrible name but a genuine meteorological term. It's quite a rare occurrence, I believe."

"Can we go out in it?" Allegra asked hopefully.

"I should wait until it stops; you might be buried and we'd have to spend hours digging up the garden looking for you."

She pulled a face. " _So_ not funny, Dad."

He sighed wearily. "Whatever happened to our firstborn, the one who used to hang on my every word?" he mused. "She used to be so sweet and affectionate; I thought she would love and be guided by me forever."

"Welcome to the pre-teen years," Christine told him. "It only gets worse from here."

Gigi pulled away from her, wrapping her pudgy arms around her father's waist. "I loves you, Daddy."

"And I love you, too, darling," Erik said, crouching so that he could enfold her in a hug. She planted a sloppy kiss on his deformed cheek and he swung her around, making her squeal in delight, settling her on his hip so she could get a better look at the falling snow. After a few moments she was watching in rapt attention, reaching out to touch the window and trace the path of the flakes when they hit the glass. He looked at her in amusement. "Have you never seen snow before?"

"Only on TV," Christine supplied when their youngest shook her head. "The last time we had any to speak of was the Beast from the East and she was too small then to remember."

"Yes, of course. It's just as well we have nowhere we need to be just now; I recall the hour of fun I had digging the car out, and when I did manage to move it the blasted thing refused to keep any traction on the road."

"That serves you right for buying a car with rear-wheel drive. And I don't remember any fun," she added, just smiling when he shot her an innocent look, one that unfortunately for him never really worked because of his contradictory features. "In fact, I'm pretty sure the air turned blue, and it had nothing to do with the temperature."

"I thought you were always telling us not to swear, Dad?" Allegra asked slyly.

"I was not swearing," Erik replied. "I was... expressing an opinion."

Christine nodded, snaking her arms around her daughter's neck from behind and pulling her close. "And your father can express an opinion in five languages."

"Six, actually," he corrected. "But that's not the point."

"Oh? And what _is_ the point?"

There was a long pause before he admitted, "I have absolutely no idea."

Hugging Allegra again, Christine released her with a quick kiss. "Come on," she said. "Looking at the snow has made me feel chilly. Let's go downstairs and have some hot chocolate."

"With marshmallows?" Allegra asked quickly. "And cream?"

"Yes, if you like. Erik?"

"If coffee can be substituted, certainly," he agreed.

"Very well, oh caffeine addict of mine, but you're making it. I can never work that steam punk espresso machine of yours properly. In a while we'll have some lunch, and then..."

He raised an eyebrow. "And then...?"

Christine exchanged a glance with her children and after a beat together they sang, " _Do you want to build a snowman_...?"

* * *

"No, Erik."

Christine folded her arms, regarding her husband's attire with a critical eye as he came down the stairs. Somehow, despite always being rather too thin for his six feet plus of height, he always managed to appear effortlessly elegant, even in the simple navy blue roll neck and jeans he was wearing at the moment, but that wasn't what had caught her attention. Neither was the fact that he'd put his mask on. It was the fedora he usually wore outside the house, the brim pulled down to partially hide the right side of his face, and the long black cashmere overcoat he was in the process of shrugging on as he reached the hall that bothered her.

"What?" he asked as he reached her, his gaze flicking up and down to take in her quilted jacket, bobble hat, scarf and mittens. The girls were similarly attired, Gigi bundled up so securely in a duffel coat that she resembled Paddington Bear. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes! You're going to play with your children in the garden, not lurking around the backstreets of Gotham City. There's no need for the mask - "

"Our garden is overlooked by at least three others. I am not going out there and advertising my appearance to the whole street; it's not Halloween," he said firmly. "The mask is non-negotiable. What else is wrong?"

"Well, the hat for a start," Christine told him, but he just lifted a finger.

"I refer my learned colleague to my first point. What else?"

She huffed. "That coat will get ruined. You've got others; go and change it, please. I've no desire to mess about taking things to the dry cleaners, even if they are open, which I very much doubt."

Erik looked down at himself. "This is my warmest winter coat."

"What happened to that windproof padded thing I bought you a few years ago? The one from North Face?"

"Oh, you mean the grey one, the jacket intended for the skiing trip that never materialised?"

"Only because you would never agree when we could go," Christine retorted. "Where is it?"

He pretended to consider. "At the back of the wardrobe," he admitted eventually with extreme reluctance.

"Of course it is," she said with a roll of the eyes. Almost everything she bought him ended up in the same place. How nice it must be, she thought, to be married to someone who was less sartorially particular. "Go and put it on. And you'll need wellies out there; the snow will go straight through those boots and I don't need you getting frostbite on top of everything else that's been happening."

"Yes, mother," Erik grumbled, turning back to the stairs and shedding the coat as he went.

Allegra sat on the bottom step pulling on her own wellingtons, the two pompoms on her hat nodding every time she moved. "You look like a super villain, Dad."

"Why do I have a feeling that isn't a compliment?" he asked as he passed her, but she shook her head.

"I like it," she announced, much to his evident surprise. "You dress much better than everyone else's dads. Jackie's is a complete slob; he hardly ever shaves, or gets his hair cut."

"If that was him I saw when I picked you up from school before Christmas I don't think he's done either since the first lockdown was announced," Christine said. "He looks like Rasputin!"

Allegra frowned. "Who's Rasputin?"

Christine looked up at Erik; he said nothing, but she saw the uncovered side of his lips twitch as he vanished onto the landing. "I'll tell you when you're older," she informed her daughter, quickly adding when Allegra opened her mouth to argue, "Your father may be a while, so shall we get this 'snow' on the road?"

"Oh, Mum! That's terrible!" her eldest wailed as Christine grabbed her and Gigi and propelled them both towards the kitchen.

"All right, then: how about, there's no business like 'snow' business?" she suggested.

"Even worse!" The pronouncement didn't stop Allegra giggling.

Christine grinned, and opened the back door. "Good. Let's 'snow'!"

* * *

"I'm sure I used to know a tenor who looked just like that," Erik remarked with a frown, stepping back to view their handiwork. He'd emerged at last after they'd already started to roll the snow into balls, appropriately clad this time in ski jacket and green Hunters, though the hat and mask remained. As the chilly wind stung her cheeks again Christine reasoned that the latter probably had been a sensible idea; if nothing else it would keep half his face warm.

Allegra patted down some more ice. "His head's too small for his body!"

"Exactly, and it was the same in the case of this gentleman. He had the most enormous stomach you could ever imagine, and on top was this tiny little head with greased back hair and a moustache like a Victorian strongman. It was one of the most ridiculous sights I've ever seen, but his voice was incredible."

Christine shook her head at the mental image. "I'm never sure when you're being serious."

He glanced up and winked at her. "I'm always completely serious, my dearest, you know that."

"He looks like Mr Greedy!" Gigi announced gleefully, pointing to the snowman and patting her own tummy. "He's had too much to eat!"

"I think you may be right," Erik agreed. "I wonder if I've got anything in the shed that might help..."

"Be careful what you're messing about with," Christine warned as he turned towards the other end of the garden. "It's very wet out here."

He gave her a fondly despairing look. "I wasn't intending to use power tools. A spade would be of far more practical use in this instance than a chainsaw."

"Why do you need a spade? The snow's not that deep."

"I thought I might be able to give our new guest an apronectomy," he explained, making a chopping motion with one hand across the snowman's overly rotund stomach.

"Ohhh, I see." She considered for a moment, head on one side, as he started in the direction of the shed again. When he was halfway there she asked, "Wouldn't it just be easier to make his head bigger?"

Erik stopped and turned around, a long-suffering expression on the side of his face she could see. "Well, yes, if you _want_ to do it that way. I just - " He broke off with a yell of surprise as a snowball hit him right in the back, making him stagger. Christine covered her own smile when he glared around the garden, finally spotting Allegra behind the Japanese maple, the white-trimmed branches shaking along with her as she laughed.

"Gotcha!" she called, and quickly ducked out of view when she saw her father bend down and gather up a handful of snow, packing it together into a much larger projectile than hers had been.

"That's what you think," he growled, stalking towards her.

With a shriek Allegra ran in the opposite direction, skidding through the slush to hide behind her mother. "Mum, stop him!"

"You started it," Christine reminded her, adding when she saw the size of the snowball her husband was holding, "No, Erik, that's too big! You'll hurt her!"

In reply he just smiled mischievously, throwing the ball into the air and catching it a couple of times before drawing back his arm as if to take aim. With a squeak Allegra was off again, aiming for the cover of the shrouded patio furniture. When her back was turned Erik broke off some of the impacted snow, making the ball considerably smaller; swiftly he formed up the rest and, thankfully with less force than Christine had expected, hurled it almost the entire length of the garden, towards Allegra's departing figure. It had lost much of its momentum by the time it reached her but she still yelped as it connected with her backside, the sudden cold making her jump; she turned to fix her father with a hard stare.

"Right," she said, and brushed the two-inch thick layer of snow from the top of the table. "You've really asked for it now."

"Allegra, watch out for stones!" Christine shouted, barely having time to pull a fascinated Gigi out of the firing line before another icy missile almost collided with the side of her head.

Within a few moments a veritable flurry of them was flying through the air, Allegra using the garden furniture as a sort of fortress from which to launch her attack, laughing when Erik's shots shattered harmlessly on her defences. In contrast, exposed in the middle of the lawn he was quickly battered by a relentless assault that soon had him looking not a little like the abandoned snowman, his jacket a slowly-melting white patchwork. Gigi watched all of this with wide eyes, bobbing up and down on her toes; Christine scooped up some snow, showing her how to shape it into a ball. With great concentration the little girl patted it between her mittened hands and, with rather more enthusiasm than finesse, aimed it at her father. It bounced off his leg and he turned to look; upon seeing the giggling culprit he shook his head in exaggerated disappointment.

"That's hardly fair is it? I thought you of all people would be on my side - "

"Yes! I win!" The crow of triumph came as one of Allegra's projectiles scored a direct hit on Erik's hat, knocking it to the ground. He gasped as the icy residue slid across his scalp and down the back of his neck; Christine couldn't help the chuckle that escaped her when he tore off his scarf, trying to use it to mop up the freezing water that had slipped underneath and was trickling past his collar.

"You little - " he began when he saw his daughter, who was leaning on the table in an effort to stop herself toppling over with the force of her amusement. In a few quick strides he had reached the patio and was grabbing her around the waist before she could get away, lifting her easily into the air while she kicked and struggled. "I think you let your guard down there, my dear. Always a mistake!"

"Dad, get off - !" Allegra wiggled and twisted but he had her tucked securely under one arm; he was usually gentle with the girls but she was now discovering that her father was a lot stronger than he looked. "Let me go!"

"Erik, be careful!" Christine called, wondering what on earth the neighbours were going to think was happening. With so much shrieking it sounded as though her daughter was being murdered. There was a rather large drift at the bottom of the garden, where the snow had been steadily blowing up against the side of the shed. It looked fairly deep and was so far untouched; towards this Erik was heading with his still-wriggling burden. Allegra evidently realised his intentions before her mother as she suddenly cried,

"Dad – no! You wouldn't - "

His response was to catch hold oher with both arms, hugging her to his chest. "Oh, wouldn't I?" he asked, pressing the cold nose of his mask against her cheek. She squirmed, trying to get away, but he held on tight.

"No!" she tried. "You're a nice dad, a really cool dad - aggh!"

Too late. Erik had let go, and with a plop Allegra found herself deposited in the snow bank right up to her waist. She howled in dismay but Gigi clapped appreciatively. "Do it again!" she chirped, delighted.

"The snow's gone over the top of my wellies!" her sister moaned. "It's freezing!"

Christine just looked at them all: Erik, wet and dishevelled, strands of dark hair dislodged and hanging loose over his mask, made his way back up the garden towards her while behind him Allegra was trying desperately to dig herself free. Gigi picked up a stick and helpfully tried to give assistance, without much success. The children had bright red noses, and the cold air had even stung colour into Erik's perpetually pale cheeks. As her mother burst out laughing at the sight Allegra pouted, waving her arms.

"Mum, help! I'm stuck!"

"Perhaps you should ask your father to get you out," Christine suggested, and received a scowl as her answer. She glanced at Erik, who just arched an eyebrow before bending down to pick up his fedora. It looked rather forlorn, having been lying in the snow, the brim bent out of shape. "Face it, sweetheart, you did rather ask for it," she said. "That's one of Dad's favourite hats."

"It was only a game," Allegra groused as Christine grasped her round the waist and pulled; after some considerable effort she came free, but her wellingtons remained where they were. She scrunched up her toes. "Oh, my feet are all wet and cold!"

"I think it's time we went back indoors," Christine declared, tugging at one of her daughter's boots with one hand while at the same trying to support her so she could keep her socks off the ground. "I'm calling a truce; it's starting to get dark and you could all do with a hot bath."

Allegra looked down at her feet. "I can't walk like this; I'll get frostbite and my toes will fall off."

"In that case we'd better do something." Erik bent down and turned his back towards her. "Here, trouble; jump on. I've no desire to play hunt the liberated digits in the middle of the night."

"I don't know what you just said," she told him, but climbed on anyway, holding tightly around his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist as he straightened. Resting her chin on his shoulder she thought for a moment before adding, "I'm sorry about your hat."

He was still holding the fedora, and looked down at it. The felt had soaked up rather a lot of water, giving it a somewhat bedraggled appearance. "I suppose I can get another," he said, and stuck it on the snowman's head at a jaunty angle. Allegra grinned.

"Now we just have to give him a moustache and he really will look like an opera singer!" she declared and Christine, remembering some of the overly-theatrical performers she had met over the years, couldn't disagree.

"Right," she said as they all stamped on the kitchen doormat, trying to get rid of the snow that clung to their boots. Allegra's snow-filled wellingtons were left on the patio to dry out. "Bath and pyjamas, and then I might see my way clear to pizza for dinner followed by a film. What do you want to watch?"

Her daughters cheered. " _Frozen_!" they chorused without hesitation. Behind her Christine heard Erik groan.

"What a shame I accidentally changed the Disney Plus password," she remarked quietly as the girls raced away. The next thing she knew she was in her husband's arms, almost crushed against his chest; she barely had time to take a breath before his lips, still cold from the frosty air outside, descended on hers in the most passionate kiss they'd shared for quite a while. When he pulled away his mismatched eyes were shining with gratitude and relief.

"God, I love you," he whispered, and she laughed, grabbing hold of the back of his head to drag him back down for a second round.


	5. Five Minutes’ Peace

These moments were the best, Christine decided, the moments when she was able to snatch some time alone. Living on top of each other as they had been for so long, the few instances anyone managed to get to themselves were to be savoured. Erik somehow always wangled more of these, citing work as a reason to hole up in studio or study with his piano and leaving her to deal with the children and any accompanying crises, but today she'd trumped him by sneaking off before he could do his usual disappearing act. When she crept up the stairs she heard Gigi demanding a story and Allegra loudly complaining that the wifi had dropped out _again_ and felt absolutely no guilt whatsoever.

It was with great satisfaction that she now lay back in the bath, luxuriating in the hot water and a few drops of the Moulton Brown essence Meg had given her for Christmas. She had a couple of battery candles and some soothing music and now she was going to stay here in blissful solitude while the mask she'd slathered over her freshly washed hair performed its magic. Wiggling her toes she sank a bit deeper into the tub and closed her eyes, just enjoying the sensation.

Unfortunately, it lasted for all of five minutes before the bathroom door handle turned. Christine swore inwardly, wishing she'd thought to lock it even though they had always taught the girls never to turn the locks in case they got stuck inside; now would be a very worthy exception to the rule. She scrabbled for the towel to try and cover the parts of her that weren't shielded by bubbles, never having been one of those mothers content to parade naked before her offspring, but thankfully it was Erik who entered. He looked harassed for a moment before his good eyebrow arched at the sight of the little sanctuary she had created.

"You know, I always thought candles and music in the bath was just a television cliché," he remarked. "Obviously I was wrong. No wonder you were so keen to sneak away."

Christine just gave him her patented wifely stare. "I thought it was about time you took over squabble duty," she said. "You've become very good at vanishing just at the right moment."

"Years of practise; I wasn't called a ghost for nothing."

"Don't I know it! What do you want?" she asked when he went to the medicine cabinet, rummaging around inside.

"There was a minor altercation; Gigi bumped her knee on the coffee table. I kissed it better but apparently that is no longer sufficient treatment and she is insisting on a plaster." Erik turned, a box between his long fingers, and regarded her with interest, mismatched eyes alight. As always, she felt goosebumps rising the longer his gaze remained upon her; it was doing other things to her as well and she slid a little further under the water, the shiver that suddenly ran through her nothing to do with the blast of cooler air he'd let into the room. He sat down on the edge of the bath, idly trailing his free hand through the scented foam. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you, kind sir. You don't look so bad yourself. That colour suits you."

He glanced down at his burgundy v-neck. "It's the sweater you chose."

"It is? You mean you're actually voluntarily wearing something _I_ bought?" Christine blinked in surprise. "Wonders will never cease."

"I told you before, I will always accede to your taste, my dear, as long as you refrain from trying to make me into a twenty-five year old," he told her, his nimble fingers finding her calf. They slid towards her toes and she squirmed as he leant towards her and added, voice dropping suggestively, "Of course, I could take it off and get in there with you."

She flicked water towards his face. "Ordinarily, I would be delighted to take you up on that offer, but our daughter is waiting for some first aid, remember? Besides, we decided the bath isn't big enough; they don't seem to make tubs to fit someone as ridiculously tall as you."

"You only say that because you are jealous, my little munchkin," he purred, pinching her big toe, and she threw the sponge at him. Erik just laughed, bending over so that he could capture her lips in a meaningful kiss. His hand slipped further up her leg and water sloshed onto the floor as Christine felt her centre of gravity shift; she flung out a hand of her own to brace herself and it landed on his chest, her wet fingers leaving dark prints on the wool of his sweater.

"Oh, do go away," she said breathlessly when he released her. "I was enjoying a few minutes of me time and you are taking entirely too much advantage."

He smiled wolfishly. "It could be _us_ time instead..."

"Nope. Not just now. I've earned this bath and right now me comes first."

"What appalling grammar," he said, his expression pained. There was a faint call of "... _Dad!_ " from the living room and he sighed. "When all of this is over, we are going to the Paris flat for a _very_ long holiday."

"Just the two of us?" Christine asked; in reply he kissed her again.

"Definitely just the two of us," he agreed, looking thoughtful for a moment. "I wonder if Annie would take the girls for six months?"

"I doubt it, but I want to be in the room when you ask her."

Erik nuzzled her neck. "What did you put on your hair? It smells absolutely delicious."

"Right, that's enough." Reluctantly she pushed him away, but not before he'd nipped at her earlobe. "If you don't go back downstairs the kids are going to come looking for you and much as I would relish watching you trying to explain this, that's a conversation I'd prefer not to have just yet."

" _Dad!_ " The shout from below was louder this time, followed by the sound of feet pattering on the stairs.

"Go on," Christine said. He groaned, getting slowly to his feet; as he moved she caught hold of his hand, tracing little circles on his palm with her index finger. "Of course, if you play your cards right I may see my way clear to continuing this tonight, when our two little darlings are safely asleep."

Erik's brow and its ruined twin rose and the corners of his mouth lifted in a wicked twist. "I'm just coming, sweetheart!" he called, adding in a voice just loud enough for his wife to hear, "I'm going to hold you to that."

"I look forward to it," she told him huskily, and he had to visibly pull himself together before exiting the room.

Chuckling to herself Christine listened, counting his footsteps as they descended to the ground floor. After waiting a minute or two in case of a sudden dire emergency which thankfully failed to materialise, she settled down again, increasing the volume of her music and topping up the hot water.

It seemed she might just have bought herself some extra time, and she was damn well going to make the most of it.


	6. Many Happy Returns

"Dad, it's your birthday on Sunday, isn't it?" Allegra asked.

"I believe so. Why the interest?" Erik enquired, glancing up from where he was sitting on the floor with Gigi on his lap, trying to be enthusiastic about the very pink comic she had wanted to share with him. Christine smiled, pretending to concentrate on the knitting she had been wrestling with since before Christmas but instead sneaking covert glances to see how many interested expressions he could produce when faced with the likes of My Little Pony and Angelina Ballerina.

Allegra shrugged. "I was just wondering what you were going to do. You and Mum usually send us over to Nanna Giry's so you can go out."

"That's mainly because your father's birthday is also Valentine's Day," Christine reminded her, and laughed when her elder daughter pulled a disgusted face. "You won't look like that in a few years' time!"

"I will. Ethan Harper gave Lily a Valentine's card last year and tried to kiss her and it was just... yuck. I don't want a boyfriend."

"Good," Erik said, nodding when Gigi pointed out something she found of particular interest. "You're far too young to be bothered about any of that. Enjoy your childhood while you have the chance; it'll be over quickly enough."

No one could argue with that pronouncement and quiet reigned for a few minutes, Christine trying not to keep dropping stitches and Allegra contemplating the ceiling from her position stretched out on the sofa. Eventually she said,

"So, what _are_ you going to do for your birthday?"

"Nothing, I imagine; the current situation will prevent our usual celebrations. Come on, sweetheart, time's up; Daddy's legs have gone to sleep," Erik told a protesting Genevieve, depositing her next to her sister so that he could get to his feet with exaggerated difficulty. When he realised Allegra was staring at him with something akin to horror he just raised an eyebrow. "What's the matter? It's just another day, after all."

"No it's not, it's your _birthday_!" she exclaimed in scandalised tones.

He retreated stiffly to an armchair, reaching for one of the books from the table beside it. "So you keep saying, but I'm afraid it means very little to me."

Wide-eyed, Allegra looked at her mother. "How can you say that? Mum, _tell_ him - !"

"Congratulations, darling, I think you may have finally succeeded in traumatising our daughter," Christine remarked, adding when he just glared, "Dad never really celebrated his birthday when he was younger, Allegra. He doesn't have the same happy associations as you."

"Oh." Allegra frowned, chewing on her lip. She seemed to be carefully considering what next to say, sitting up and shooting an occasional glance towards her father before she ventured, "Did Granny never even give you a birthday party? Not once?"

Erik sighed, and extended a hand to her. Immediately she jumped up and wedged herself into the chair next to him, snuggling up when he slid an arm around her shoulders. "I didn't properly go to school until I was older than you, so I didn't know anyone to invite to a party," he said quietly. "It was just myself and your grandmother for a long time, and she didn't really have any interest in marking important anniversaries. I think I must have been about thirteen before I even knew what a birthday was."

She raised her head, and her expression was appalled. Christine could understand; she had felt exactly the same way herself when Erik eventually opened up to her about his lonely childhood. "Oh, Dad, that's _horrible_."

"Yes, well, it's all in the past now. Granny was ill for a lot of the time; she had other things to think about."

"Like what? You don't have any brothers and sisters."

"No, I don't," Erik said. "Sometimes I wish I had. But what's done is done; it doesn't really matter to me." It was probably true, or certainly he believed it to be; he was still conflicted in his feelings towards his mother and the chaotic upbringing to which he had been subjected, left to fend for himself for long stretches of time while she battled the demons raised by a post-natal depression that grew into a more serious malaise. When she turned up at one of the Vanbrugh's gala evenings not long after their wedding, Christine didn't think she had ever seen Erik so shocked and angry; he had left home as soon as he was able and there had been no contact between them for nearly thirty years. Even though they were now on civil terms and he had grudgingly allowed her, at Christine's gentle prompting, to take a somewhat active role in the lives of her granddaughters they would never be close, the damage too deep to be easily rectified, especially after so much time had passed.

The explanation, true or not, didn't placate Allegra. With a sniff she kissed his twisted cheek and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. "Poor Dad. I wish I could have been there. I would have been your friend."

He looked a little startled, as he always was with tears, but drew her closer, ruffling her golden curls. "It's all right, sweetheart, don't get upset. I shouldn't have told you. I prefer to celebrate Valentine's Day; it reminds me that I had the wonderful luck to meet your mother, and that was the best thing that ever happened to me until you two came along."

Allegra wiped at her eyes, managing a watery smile when he produced a handkerchief from inside her ear. Gigi, upset at seeing her sister cry, cuddled up to Christine. "Daddy can have _my_ birthday," she announced quite seriously.

"Thank you for the gesture, petite, but I think you'll need it more than I will," Erik told her, amused.

Both the girls opened their mouths to object but Christine shook her head. "I think it's time we changed the subject," she said firmly. "Allegra, come here. I want to measure this against you."

"I still think it's not fair," her eldest muttered, sliding off Erik's lap and coming to stand in front of the sofa while her mother held what was intended to be the back of a cardigan up for length. "At least on my birthday I got to see some of my friends outside. This stupid virus is ruining everything."

"You're making far too much fuss about it," Christine replied, frowning when she realised she'd not only dropped stitches but somehow gained them as well. "When people get to your father's age they usually stop counting birthdays; the size of the number makes them too depressed."

Erik had evidently heard that because the look he shot her was an absolute picture. She just smiled, and rummaged in her knitting bag for the tape measure.

* * *

She had thought the conversation forgotten until a couple of days later. She was getting dinner ready; it was technically Erik's turn to cook but his phone rang in the middle of chopping vegetables and he'd disappeared into the living room, closing the door behind him. The kids were sitting at the kitchen island, Allegra finishing some maths while Gigi coloured in a picture of Cinderella with such concentration that her tongue was poking from the corner of her mouth.

"Mum," Allegra said as Christine shut the oven door, tracing the sum she was working on with her pencil. "Do you think we could have a birthday party for Dad? I really hate thinking he's never had one."

"A party?" Christine blinked in surprise. "With guests? We can't ask anyone to the house, darling, it's not allowed."

"I know that. I meant just us, and maybe Granny, too. She could come, couldn't she, because we're in a bubble?"

"Well, yes, she could, but I'm not sure how he'd feel about it. You know he hates being the centre of attention," Christine reminded her. She'd never thrown a party for Erik herself for that very reason, though she had considered it more than once over the years, especially when he turned fifty. The company at the theatre had wanted to mark the occasion and it had taken some time to make them understand that though they meant well he just wouldn't be comfortable at such a gathering, disliking the small talk and mingling such events always necessitated.

Allegra looked back down at her exercise book and sighed. "OK. It was just a thought."

Surely, though, a small party at home with just his family would be quite different, Christine considered quickly. "Well, maybe he might like it, just this once," she said, and her daughter brightened. "Especially if he were to know it was your idea. What did you have in mind?"

"Balloons and streamers. We can order them online, can't we?" Allegra pulled out a piece of paper and passed it to her mother. On it was scribbled a list of what were apparently party essentials to a nine-year-old. "And we'll need music, _proper_ music, not Dad's opera and Beethoven. Oh! And games, like Pass the Parcel and Pin the Tail on the Donkey."

"And jelly and ice cream," Gigi added, nodding sagely.

"I thought you were too old for those sorts of games?" Christine asked. "You nearly blew a fuse when I suggested we play Musical Statues a couple of years ago. Party games weren't cool, if I recall correctly."

"This is different: Dad won't have played them before. You used to tell us about the parties Grandpa Daae threw when you were our age," said Allegra. "Dad didn't have birthday parties like that when he was younger, so he should have one now to make up for it."

Christine supposed she couldn't really fault the logic of that. Hearing her husband's voice as he emerged from the front room she quickly folded the list and stuffed it into her pocket. He didn't sound happy. "OK, leave it with me. I'll see what I can do," she promised.

"We need a cake, too," Allegra hissed and she nodded just as Erik returned, a scowl on his face. He accepted the glass of wine Christine passed him and leaned against the counter, fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on the marble top.

"Is everything all right?" she enquired, opening the oven door a fraction to check on the chicken.

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly, as though trying to bring his emotions under control. "That was James," he said, tension quivering in his voice. "The backers want a meeting tomorrow about the future of the Vanburgh."

"Ah."

Allegra started clearing away her schoolwork. "Does that mean the theatre's going to close for good?"

"I don't know, sweetheart," he admitted. "Maybe. Maybe not. It all depends on what happens over the next couple of months, and whether we can find the money to keep going until the summer."

"You can have what's in my piggy bank if it will help," she offered, and he bent down to kiss the top of her head as she passed him. "I think I've got about thirty pounds."

"Thank you, my darling, but I wouldn't take that from you. You've worked too hard to save it."

Christine put the dish of vegetables in the microwave and started it up. "Did Jimmy give you any idea what the outcome might be?" she asked, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "If the backers are going to pull out - "

"Then we will be sunk, yes, I know. I hate the thought of having to put people out of work when we've managed to keep things together so far, but the ones putting the money in want some kind of return and you can't blame them, I suppose." Erik took a swig of Sauvignon. "We lost too much when the Christmas concert was cancelled at the last minute."

"That wasn't your fault."

"No, but I'm in overall charge and the buck stops here." He sighed heavily. "I expect I'm going to be tied up with this all day tomorrow; I won't be able to help with the French lessons."

"Oh, that's all right, I'm sure we'll manage." Christine exchanged a glance with Allegra, who grinned. "I had something a bit more practical planned anyway."

* * *

"Well, that hasn't come out too badly," she said, regarding the results of their morning's baking as they cooled on a wire rack. The kids had insisted on chocolate, claiming it was the only flavour for a birthday cake, and she had bowed to their apparently superior knowledge upon the subject even though she had a sneaking suspicion Erik might have preferred a Victoria sponge or lemon drizzle. "I'll freeze them and we'll put it all together on Saturday; I'm sure I can find some way to distract your father long enough."

Allegra was still clearing out the remains of the mixture from its bowl. "Do we have any candles?" she asked, licking the spoon.

"I ordered some new ones with the other things," Christine assured her. "They should be here tomorrow. I've already got cards and wrapping paper; we might as well sort out the presents while he's still on that conference call."

"He's been in there for ages. I don't think it's going very well."

The island needed a wipe down; flour seemed to have got everywhere. Christine looked around for the dishcloth. "How can you tell?"

"It's on speakerphone and there was a lot of shouting when I came downstairs," Allegra said. "It's never good when Dad yells like that."

Her mother's heart sank. "Oh, dear." The last thing the Vanburgh needed was Erik letting his temper get the better of him and saying something he would regret.

They spent some time wrapping his birthday presents, Christine trying - and failing - to keep her mind off what was happening in the study. It wasn't easy to think of a gift so soon after Christmas, especially when there were no shops open to browse for inspiration. Emboldened by his claim to actually like the burgundy sweater she had ordered an identical one in forest green and some moleskin trousers in a dark camel shade that she thought might make a change from his usual muted colour palette; for the kids to give him she'd chosen socks and a glossy coffee table book about Parisian architecture which had a big section that focussed on the Palais Garnier. Gigi, wanting to do everything herself, gamely placed sellotape and signed her own name in the card with more enthusiasm than finesse, laughing when Allegra complained that she'd made the wrapping paper look like a dog had chewed it.

"It doesn't matter," Christine told her. "I'm sure Dad won't mind in the least."

The gifts were hidden in the back of a cupboard and the kettle was boiling when Allegra tiptoed into the hall and put an ear to the study door. "It's all gone quiet," she reported. "Do you think it's over? Shall I - "

"No. I'll go." Christine poured hot water into a mug. It was instant coffee and he would doubtless complain about the taste but she really didn't feel like grappling with the espresso machine just at the moment. "I have a feeling your father is going to need careful handling right now."

* * *

It took him several moments to respond to her knock.

When she poked her head into the study she found him sitting in his big leather chair, elbows resting on the desk and his head in his hands. His shoulders were hunched, his mask lying near the telephone; she was surprised to find he'd been wearing it indoors, but then reasoned he must have kept it to hand just in case someone demanded a video call. She put down the coffee within reach and rested a hand on his arm.

"How did it go?"

Erik leaned back in the chair, dragging his hands down his face. When he glanced up at her she was struck by how tired he looked. "We have a stay of execution, for a few weeks, at least. There have been murmurings in the press that things _may_ start to reopen in April, the information supposedly coming from the government, but who can tell? De Chagny at least is willing to wait and see, and the others look to him for their cues."

"That must have been Raoul's influence," Christine mused. "Philip might be an obnoxious prat but he does listen to his brother when it comes to investments; Raoul has the experience, after all, plus I know he doesn't want to see us go under."

"Even so, I don't exactly feel happy knowing that your ex is responsible for my theatre remaining afloat a while longer."

"One of these days, my dear, you are going to have to accept the fact that though Raoul and I were once engaged, it has been over between us for a very long time," she told him lightly, and he just grunted. She perched on the desk, pushing the coffee mug towards him. "If I was still in love with him I would hardly have stayed married to you for ten years and had two children, would I?"

"Wouldn't you?" he asked, the question sounding half serious.

"Perhaps if I was a heartless, duplicitous woman who only cared about herself. You are an idiot sometimes," Christine said, grasping his fingers and giving them a sharp squeeze. "I thought we'd got past all that. Raoul is a friend, but it's _you_ I love. I wouldn't put up with your moods if I didn't, believe me."

Erik sighed. "Yes, I know. I'm being a fool; take no notice. I don't deserve you."

"You might change your mind when you drink that coffee."

He sipped at the drink and grimaced. "I really need to show you how to work that machine."

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked. "Apart from learning how to make proper coffee, that is."

"Find me half a million pounds to be going on with?" he suggested, arching an eyebrow.

Christine smiled slightly. "I'll check down the back of the sofa."

* * *

It was incredible how quickly Sunday came round.

"I just don't see the point of dressing up to sit round the kitchen table, that's all," Erik said when she pushed him towards the stairs. "You did say we were going to eat later today, didn't you?"

He'd been sitting in the living room listening to something through headphones while Allegra helped Gigi to put some Lego together when Christine entered wearing what she knew was one of his favourites of her dresses, a black shift that made her feel like Audrey Hepburn in _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ , with heels and extravagant earrings. Erik's eyes had widened in surprise at the sight of her; she hadn't felt the need to wear make-up for weeks, and after so long in flats or trainers the shoes pulled on her calf muscles, but it was nice to feel a bit glam for a change and the smile on her face was a genuine one. There was a very good reason for all this of course; she had agreed with the girls that if they were going to make this party special they wouldn't just sit around in any old clothes, and there was already a change of outfit laid out on their beds. They'd spent some time the previous day blowing up balloons and hid them in the dining room; now all she had to do was get rid of her husband so that the rest of their plan could swing into action.

"Yes, and we will, but I just thought it would be nice to make an effort, that's all," she said. "Go and have a nice long shower; I put out something for you to wear."

He shot her a suspicious glance. "If I didn't know better, I would swear you were up to something."

"And why would you think that?" Christine asked innocently, and he shook his head.

"You, my dear, have always been a terrible liar."

"There's nothing going on," she insisted, crossing her fingers behind her back. "I just wanted to make things nice for you, that's all. Now go on, and take your time; I'm going to start looking at dinner."

Erik didn't look even remotely convinced but he went, and she waited to hear the bedroom door close before hurrying back to the lounge where her daughters were already starting to tidy things away, clearing the coffee table so they could lay out the plates of cakes and sandwiches they had already prepared. Christine supposed she was lucky that she had a husband with very little interest in food; an infrequent snacker, he hadn't been near the fridge or the larder all day, allowing them to keep their efforts secret. Harking back to the birthday parties of her youth, she had cooked cocktail sausages and put them on sticks, doing the same with the once-popular combination of cheese and pineapple. It was something of a mad scramble to hang the balloons, and a banner proclaiming _Happy Birthday!_ over the fireplace; Allegra had drawn a rather impressive donkey and stuck it to the back of the door, a tail made from some of Christine's knitting wool carefully pinned up alongside it. The chocolate cake sat in pride of place, decorated with as many candles as Gigi could fit onto its surface.

All the time the clock was ticking; she sent the girls up to get changed but hadn't realised how late it was getting until the doorbell rang.

"Do you want me to get that?" Erik called; Christine ran into the hall to find him already halfway down the stairs, wrapped in his dressing gown, mask in place.

"No, I'll do it!" she shouted, waving her hands to shoo him away. "Go and get dressed!"

"Christine, please tell me you haven't invited anyone round," he said, forehead creasing in concern. "I really don't want a visit from the police as a birthday present."

She just gave him a hard stare. "Do you really think I'm that daft?" she enquired archly. When he admitted that he didn't she just pointed up the stairs; he gave her a very strange look but went anyway. She didn't breathe out until he was safely back in the bedroom; after counting slowly to ten she went to the door to let her mother-in-law in.

"Am I too early?" Angela asked as Christine took her coat, stowing it safely away from sight in the hall cupboard. "I thought I heard Erik's voice..?"

"He's upstairs. Oh, thank you; he's very fond of Chateau Neuf," Christine said, accepting the proffered bottle of wine.

"Yes, I remember. I must say this is a lovely idea; I was very surprised when Allegra asked me to come. It's always nice to get out of the house for a while; I think the only place I've been since Christmas Day was the vaccination centre," the older woman remarked once the usual ritual of hand-washing and sanitising had been performed, keeping her voice low as they made their way to the living room. "Since Erik arranged for everything to be delivered for me I've no need to go out, not even to pick up a prescription."

"It's safer that way; we're still staying home as much as possible."

"Yes. It's safe, but rather lonely," Angela sighed. "You'll have to show me how to use Skype again, then I can help out with the school work. I'd love to see more of the girls and I'm sure you would welcome a break."

A slightly hysterical laugh escaped Christine as she hunted through the CD collection for the party album she knew she had somewhere. "I'll be glad to," she replied. "Any and all help is gratefully received."

The door opened and Allegra appeared. "I think I just heard Dad coming down the landing," she announced breathlessly.

"Blast! I'll have to go and catch him. Where's your sister?"

"Just behind me; she lost her shoe on the stairs. Do you want me to set up the laptop?" Allegra asked.

"Yes; it's all ready, you know how to connect it to the TV, don't you?" Christine wished she'd decided against stilettos when she nearly turned her ankle trying to run from the room. Behind her she could hear her mother-in-law professing her astonishment that children today could know so much about technology as Allegra explained what she was doing with the cables. Gigi was sitting on the bottom stair, the fluffy skirts of her party dress bunching up around her as she tried to put her sparkly buckled pump back on; quickly Christine did it for her, and had just hurried her off to join the others when she heard a familiar tread above.

Erik was coming down, wearing the suit she'd put out for him: black wool with a brocade waistcoat and deep red tie. He'd dressed in much the same way on the night of their first official date and looking at him still gave her a frisson even now. The faintly suspicious expression hadn't completely left his face, but he had obviously sussed that something was amiss as he was still wearing his mask. "Well?" he asked as he reached her side. "Will I do?"

"Always," she told him, and knew why she'd chosen the shoes when she didn't have to reach so far to kiss him. He smelt of shower gel and aftershave, with a background of something spicy that always seemed to hang around him. "I'm afraid I have a confession. I wasn't... _entirely_ truthful earlier."

He chuckled. "Somehow, I'd worked that one out for myself. What have you done?"

"It's a surprise. Bend down."

"Christine, I really don't - " he began, eyes widening when she reached into the pocket of the coat hanging on the banister and pulled out a silk scarf. "The girls are still up!"

"I wonder about the way your mind works sometimes," Christine scolded, trying the scarf over his eyes. She grabbed hold of his hand but he held back. "What's the matter?"

"I'm not entirely sure I like surprises," he said. "Can't you just tell me what's going on?"

"Humour me."

A long-suffering sigh. "Oh, very well, if I must."

She smiled. "Come on, you big baby. I promise I won't hurt you." As she led him towards the door her phone chimed; it was a message from Meg: _Everyone's online. Are we ready to go?_

"What was that?" Erik asked, visibly irked at being blindfolded.

"Nothing," Christine told him as she swiftly responded: _Just give me one more minute_.

"Christine - " There was a slightly menacing tone when he said her name now; she knew he hated not knowing what was happening and was almost vibrating with impatience.

Without another word she drew him towards the living room, and threw open the door; there was a brief pause and then a great chorus of " _Happy Birthday!_ " broke forth, the sound of many more voices than there should have been present. Christine hadn't been completely sure about Meg's idea when her friend suggested it, not knowing how Erik might react, but as she glanced towards the television to see that Allegra had set it up perfectly she knew it had been the right thing to do: a Zoom chat was open on the screen and there waving from a grid of little boxes were Meg and Antoinette, James and Theodora, as well as most of the singers and orchestra from the Vanburgh, Marie and Mike and Alfie, even Eugene Reyer the conductor, all the people they hadn't been able to see for so long. Erik's expression was horrified for a moment before she removed the blindfold and he blinked in amazement, realising that the noise came from an online coterie of friends and his house wasn't about to be raided by the Met investigating an illegal house party.

"Another year older, maestro! You must be a premium vintage by now," Teddy called cheekily. He shot her a glare and she just winked, raising the glass of wine in her hand.

"What on earth is going on?" Erik demanded. He looked quite shocked, running a shaky hand through his hair and gazing around at the decorations, his daughters standing by the food-laden table, both wearing huge grins, and his mother, who moved forward slightly as though to offer a kiss but thought better of it, whether because of the situation with the virus or she thought it might not be welcomed Christine couldn't be sure.

"It's your birthday party, Daddy!" Gigi exclaimed, bouncing excitedly on her toes.

"My – Good God." He swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment. "I really never expected - "

On the TV screen Meg lifted a hand as a signal to her colleagues. "One, two, _three_..."

It almost brought a tear to Christine's eye when the company of the Vanburgh Theatre struck up the familiar refrain of _Happy Birthday to You_ , embellished by some close harmonies courtesy of the Theodora and the chorus. It was the first time they had all performed together in months. Despite still apparently being slightly overwhelmed, Erik's lips twitched mischievously.

"Shouldn't I be washing my hands to this?" he asked and she slapped his arm.

"Ungrateful wretch."

"Far from it. Thank you, everyone," he said, raising his voice so they could all hear him. "This has been a complete surprise to me." He glanced at Christine. "I will admit that while I had guessed she was up to something I wasn't aware my wife could be _quite_ so deceitful."

"Go on, Christine!" Meg shouted, and her mother, sitting at her side, shushed her.

Erik considered for a moment before he continued, "I wish I could tell you something definite about the reopening of our theatre, but unfortunately at present I can't say any more than that we will have to continue as we are for a little while longer. I am very pleased to hear that you are all still in fine voice, and I look forward to the day when I can see you back on the stage. It can't come quickly enough!"

"Amen to that!" declared Alfie, raising his pint glass in a toast, and counting them in for a rendition of _For He's a Jolly Good Fellow_.

"Are you angry with me?" Christine asked quietly.

Her husband glanced down at her. "For the briefest second, possibly, especially if all those candles on the cake are meant to represent my age. But even so I could never be cross with you for long. What made you think to do all this?"

"Our daughters. They wanted to give you a proper birthday," she said, gaze moving to the two girls. Angela was pouring glasses of champagne and Allegra looked covetously at the alcohol before her grandmother noticed and she quickly reached for the cola instead. Beside her Gigi solemnly doled out sausages and sandwiches onto individual plates; she tried a piece of the cheese and pineapple and grimaced at the taste. Christine laughed. "I think we've done well with them."

Erik's arm snaked around her waist. "I think you may be right," he agreed, kissing the top of her head. "I have a confession of my own: I'm afraid that with everything that's been going on I quite forgot to get you a Valentine's Day gift."

"Oh, that's all right. I didn't get you one, either. However," she added, turning in his embrace and sliding a hand up his chest to toy with his silk tie, "Your mother has volunteered to occupy the kids and put them to bed when the party's over. Just in case you fancy unwrapping me instead..."

His eyes were dark and he dipped his head towards hers as he whispered, "I think that can be arranged..."

Christine smiled. "Happy Birthday, darling."


	7. Healing Hands

The bedroom was dark when Christine poked her head round the door.

"Kids are in bed; Gigi's asleep at last but I've told Allegra her light had better be off by nine thirty or there will be trouble," she said, reaching for the switch and wondering if she was actually talking to herself. The girls had missed their father at bedtime but it wasn't an entirely unusual occurrence; they both knew that Daddy occasionally got so caught up when he was composing that he forgot everything else that was going on around him. Though he was much improved from the early days of their acquaintance, Christine could still recall the nights when he was so inspired he didn't even go to bed, and she found him the next morning fast asleep draped over the piano. Many was the time she had been required to massage neck and back kinks caused by such careless behaviour; it had taken a while to convince Erik that his body was something he actually needed to treat with kindness, not merely an inconveniently fallible vessel for his genius.

It was strange; she'd been sure she heard him come up the stairs earlier, but there was no sign of him now. He'd been looking a bit peaky at dinner but she deliberately hadn't brought it up in front of the children; he hated being what he regarded as mollycoddled in their presence in case it made him appear weak. In the glow from the streetlamps that bled through the curtains she could see that the bedclothes were untouched so he evidently had decided against the nap she quietly suggested while they were clearing up. With a shrug she reasoned that he must not be feeling too bad and had probably shut himself up in the study to continue working instead; she turned to leave, drawing the door shut behind her and it was then that she heard it, a groan coming somewhere in the room beyond. Christine froze and listened; when it came again she hurried back inside and realised there was a faint luminescence under the door of the en suite that she had missed before. "Erik?" she called. "Are you all right?"

Another sound; indistinct but pained. Alarm bells started ringing at the back of her mind and her feet were carrying her forwards almost before she had noticed, avoiding the furniture more by instinct than skill. She cracked open the bathroom door a couple of inches and her heart gave a jolt when she saw the shadowy form of her husband slumped on the tiles between the shower and the sink, his long legs drawn up to his chest. The light was coming from the phone which lay on the floor beside him and had probably fallen from his pocket, its screen lit by a text message that had just come through; had it not arrived she might never have found him, wrongly assuming that he had retreated to be alone with his music and being so used to it that she had failed to check.

Quickly she switched on the main light and Erik moaned, lifting one hand in a weak attempt to shield his eyes from the glare. The lid of the toilet seat was up and Christine could smell that he had been sick; crouching down at his side she slid an arm beneath his shoulders, sitting him up slightly so that he could lean on her instead of the hard tiled wall. "What's wrong?" she asked, running a hand over his clammy face, her voice quivering with anxiety. Frantically she pushed back the dark hair that had come loose from its carefully applied moorings and fanned over his forehead to feel for a fever; he was cold and as white as sheet, even the livid scars and ridges of the deformed side of his face paler than usual. A horribly familiar panic began to rise as it had done so many times over the last few months, the irrational fear that almost any illness could be the virus. Though she instinctively wanted to help a little voice at the back of her mind asked should she even be touching him like this? What would she do if he was so unwell she needed to call an ambulance? The ICU wards were overflowing across the city; if she let them take him away she might never see him again. Thankfully before she could become so worried she couldn't think straight her common sense kicked in, reminding her that she knew these symptoms; it wasn't the first time she had seen Erik in this state. "Is it one of your heads?"

Ever so slightly he nodded, hissing as even that movement apparently sent fire crashing through his skull and she felt horribly guilty at the relief that surged through her. It was all right; they could deal with this. He turned his face into her neck, away from the brilliance of the sixty watt bulb overhead, and she just held him, wondering why bathroom lights always had to be so bright.

"So this is why you were so quiet at dinner," she murmured, rocking him gently as she did with the children when they were ill or upset. "You should have told me. Did you take any of your pills?"

He made a vague noise that sounded like an affirmative followed by a mumbled, "...came straight back up again."

"We need to get you to bed," Christine told him. "You'll be much more comfortable there. Do you think you can stand?"

"Probably... if you help me." He opened one eye a fraction but closed it again immediately with a whimper. "Christ! Light... _hurts_."

She stroked his hair. "I know, darling, I know. But I need to be able to see what I'm doing; I don't want you to slip and fall." Slowly she stood, bracing herself on the wall and easing him up with her; it was never a simple manoeuvre as there was best part of a foot's difference in height between them but eventually they managed it, her arm wrapped tightly around his waist and Erik clinging onto her for dear life until she was able to help him lean on the sink. She shut the toilet and flushed it to remove what remained of the little he'd managed to eat earlier, filling a glass of water from the tap and encouraging him to drink it. "Wash your mouth out first," she cautioned, and left him for a moment to switch on one of the bedside lamps, leaving its soft glow to illuminate the room when she flicked off the bathroom light.

He gave an audible sigh of relief, lifting the glass shakily to his lips. "...thank you."

"Come on." She held out a hand to him and he took it, allowing her to lead his shuffling steps towards the bed. Once there he collapsed heavily on his side and Christine went about finding something soft for him to wear. It seemed he had intended to lie down after all, even if he hadn't made it that far, as his feet were bare and his shirt was half unbuttoned. The migraine must have worsened after he came upstairs.

Though thankfully now few and far between, she knew that Erik had suffered such debilitating headaches since his teens. He'd told her about them fairly early in their relationship, when she had been a terrified witness to one particularly bad attack that had kept him prostrate for two days, hardly daring to move because of the pain. He had seen more than one doctor over the years, both private and NHS, and though each one agreed that as the trouble always seemed to begin behind that eye there probably was a connection to the problems with the right side of his face, none had suggested a concrete reason for it. MRIs and CAT scans all returned clear and so, fobbed off with pills, he was given no choice but to endure them. Stress was often a trigger; Christine knew he'd been tired, under pressure over the future of the Vanbrugh, but he was so good at hiding his feelings that when he insisted everything was all right it was easy to believe him. When she later retrieved his phone from the bathroom floor she discovered just the latest in a long exchange of texts between Erik and James about the theatre; stowing it away for the moment she decided that she would be having a few words with Mr Patterson-Smythe in the morning.

"Here," she said, setting down the pyjamas she bought him back in April on the duvet. "You'll feel much better if you get out of those scratchy clothes."

"...nothing scratchy about my clothes," Erik replied into the mattress. "I... like tailoring."

"Yes, I know, but it's not conducive to relaxation, is it? C'mon." It was like dealing with one of the children. With an effort she got him sitting up and undressed, though he was about as much assistance as a ragdoll would have been. His eyes were barely half open but he still pulled a face at the plaid pyjama trousers when she helped him into them. "There's a reason why loungewear is popular," she told him; he just grunted, unconvinced, but allowed her to pull the plain green t-shirt over his head.

For a few moments he fumbled with the long sleeves, trying without success to find the armholes; a veteran of toddler dressing sessions, Christine took hold of his wrist and threaded his arm through, doing the same the other side. That done, she allowed him to lie down again, tugging the covers over his shoulders and tucking him in just as she had Gigi a couple of hours earlier. He gave a moan, though to her relief it sounded less distressed than before, and pressed his distorted face into the cool pillow.

"More comfortable?" she asked. There was the merest hint of a nod. "Good. Do you think you should try taking some more medication?"

"No point now. I'll try and... sleep it off. Should have taken the meds when... the aura started."

"So why didn't you?" she asked, lightly brushing the back of her hand against his temple. He felt warmer, the horrible cold clamminess from the nausea almost gone.

Erik sighed. "Allegra was telling me... about the book she has been told to read... for school. I... I didn't want to look as though I... wasn't interested."

"Oh, you silly man." Christine dropped a kiss on his forehead. "I think she would be more upset to see you like this."

"What... is it you've said before? Intelligent doesn't... always equal sensible."

She laughed softly. "That still holds true." After watching him for a few more moments she started to get to her feet. "I'll leave you in peace for a while. Is there anything else you need before I do?"

"Yes." His eyes were still closed but the hand that wasn't beneath the pillow supporting his head reached out and caught her sleeve. "Don't go."

Surprised, she sat back down beside him. Usually he wanted to be alone when he felt like this; she had learned it was best to leave him to lie down in a darkened room while the rest of them tiptoed around the house making as little noise as possible until the attack was over. "Are you sure?"

Again that slight movement of his head on the pillow, all the assent that he could currently manage. "You... you help to chase the pain away."

Christine felt a sudden swell of love as she looked at him, her strong, outwardly confident husband lying there crumpled in their bed as helpless as a child. His fingers had tightened around her arm, holding on; she knew that he trusted her as implicitly as did their daughters and she had never taken such responsibility lightly. Wordlessly she kicked off her slippers, sliding to the top of the mattress and tucking her chilled feet under the duvet. Leaning back against the headboard she plumped one of the pillows from her side of the bed and laid it across her lap. "Here," she said, patting it gently; after a beat Erik shifted closer, curling into her side and laying his head down. She ran a hand over his hair, brushing it back.

"You were always... my angel," he breathed. "My... ministering angel."

"And I always will be," she told him softly. "Now go to sleep; I won't leave you."

"...promise?" He sounded just like a little boy, and she smiled, trailing her fingers across his cheek, tracing his jaw line, lightly massaging away the tension. Under her touch he gradually relaxed, the deep lines that pain had etched around his eyes and mouth beginning to smooth away. Age was creeping up on him, the hair at his temples liberally sprinkled with grey, but just at that moment he looked much younger than his fifty five years. His left arm was draped across her knees and she reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.

"I promise."


	8. The Morning After

"You look rough," Christine observed, turning from the sink when she heard Erik enter the kitchen.

It was true: after last night he was pale and drawn, squinting in the sunlight as though it still hurt to open his eyes. He was still in his pyjamas, dressing gown thrown on top, but hadn't bothered to find his slippers and padded barefoot across the cold tiles to sit down on one of the stools that surrounded the central island. His hair was sticking up all over the place and stubble shadowed the good side of his face; usually so fastidious about his appearance he clearly didn't have the energy yet to look in the mirror. "I _feel_ rough," he said, and then yawned fit to crack his jaw, wincing with the effort.

"You should have stayed in bed."

"Can't. There's another meeting this morning. Plus the inside of my mouth tastes like a litter tray." He grimaced and leaned forward onto the counter, covering his eyes with one hand and resting his chin on the other. "I think I am officially a wreck. Thank God for telephones; no one needs to see me."

"How is your head?" she asked, already knowing the answer. Sometimes the migraines hung around for days, even with the medication.

"If I hold it like this, it's bearable. Letting go feels as if it's about to fall off, but even that's better than it was last night, thanks to you."

"That's something, I suppose." Christine poured him a glass of water and dipped the blind slightly to block out the glare. "Drink that and then go back upstairs; I'll bring you some breakfast."

Erik took the glass gratefully, draining it. "No time to eat; I came down to get the laptop from the study. There's a ridiculous amount to go through: budget sheets, costings for the new production, if we ever get it off the ground - "

"Not today. The Vanburgh can take care of itself," she said firmly. "Today you're going to rest if I have to tie you down."

"I think those two things might be mutually exclusive," he joked, and then groaned, dropping his head back down into his hand. "But maybe not just at the moment."

"I mean it," Christine told him, refilling the glass. "The kids are under strict instructions to give you space and I phoned Jimmy first thing; he's cancelled all the business he can, and he said he'd personally deal with anything else. And I asked Madame to liaise with him over the budgets; if you tell me what info she needs I'll send it all over to her."

Shocked, he sat up and immediately regretted it; she had to catch him before he toppled off the stool. "You can't be serious!" he exclaimed. "Do you honestly think I can leave Annie to negotiate something so important?"

"Yes, I do." She rolled her eyes when he started to argue again, ignoring the death-glare he gave her. "Oh, come on, Erik, she's perfectly capable! She's your right-hand woman in that theatre, much as you hate to admit it. Hardly anything goes on that Madame doesn't know about, and if it does she soon finds out. She's the ideal person to take over while you have a few days' rest."

"I don't _need_ a few days' rest!" He gamely tried to straighten up, raking back his hair, but wobbled again and had to grab hold of the counter. Squeezing his eyes shut he took a deep breath. "Just let me have a shower, I'm sure I'll feel much more human afterwards."

"You can have a shower later, when I know I won't find you on the floor again. In the meantime, you're going back to bed and I want you to put the Vanburgh out of your mind." Christine just looked at him and sighed. His stubbornness had reasserted itself this morning but she knew he was still in considerable pain; even had he not admitted as much earlier it was obvious in every exaggeratedly careful movement, in the lines around his eyes and the dark circles beneath them. "No one expects you to be a hero," she said gently. "You're not well, and you need to take some time for yourself. Nothing good is going to come of working yourself into the ground just because you can."

"There is too much to _do_ ," he moaned.

"Then delegate. What use do you think you're going to be to anyone like this? You have a team of perfectly capable staff, so _use_ them; there's no point paying other people and doing all the work yourself. Now come on: bed." It was the tone she used when the children were playing up, the one that told them in no uncertain terms that Mum meant business. She slid a hand under Erik's armpit and heaved him up off the stool, steadying him when the sudden change in position made him sway on his feet. "I don't know how you even got down here," she muttered as she guided him out of the kitchen.

"It didn't feel so bad when I was lying down."

"Then you should have stayed there," Christine retorted. "Honestly, I despair of you sometimes; it's like having a third child to cope with, except that you talk back more than the kids do."

Once they had made it back upstairs she tidied the bed, fluffing up the duvet and pillows, while he retreated to the bathroom, grumbling about the affront to his dignity when she insisted he keep the door open so she could make sure he hadn't keeled over. She could hear him brushing his teeth and gargling with the mouthwash. By the time he emerged, looking slightly refreshed, the bedclothes were folded open invitingly and all the pillows were piled on his side; she knew that he probably would want to go back to sleep, but being propped up would be easier on his spine than lying prone all day. The TV remote was on the bedside cabinet and she'd disconnected the telephone, switching off his mobile and slipping it into her pocket.

"Think you can eat anything?" she asked, touching the radiator to make sure the heating hadn't gone off. Erik had flopped against the pillows, eyes closed, and she lifted his legs onto the bed, drawing the covers over him. "Your feet are absolutely freezing! How about a boiled egg?"

"To warm my feet?" He sounded sleepy, confused. "Wouldn't a hot water bottle be easier?"

Christine rolled her eyes, smiling. "Silly me; didn't think of that. Would you like a boiled egg to eat instead?" He shook his head. "You need something in your stomach; you hardly ate anything last night."

"Maybe just some toast. I don't think I could manage anything else."

"OK." She dropped a kiss on his mangled forehead. "I'll bring some up in a while."

It wasn't until she was almost out of the door that she heard her name and turned back to see that he'd opened one eye. "You'd better bring the computer too," he said resignedly. "I'll show you the files you need to send to Annie."

* * *

"It's ridiculous, really it is," Antoinette Giry exclaimed. "Being dictated to by people with no artistic integrity whatsoever, just to save a few pennies!"

"There's not much we can do when they're the ones holding the purse strings," Christine pointed out. There had been a Skype call waiting on her phone when she got back downstairs, and when she accepted it a harassed-looking Madame appeared on the screen; despite being at home her make-up was immaculate, not one strand of her cropped black hair out of place, but the lines on her forehead were even deeper than usual.

"Idiots!" she fumed. "Audiences have expectations of a revival; many of them are motivated to come from nostalgia. If they don't get what they think they are going to see they quickly vote with their feet and they will notice when aspects have been changed purely for the sake of it."

Christine sighed, and took a sip of her tea. "Is this what's been bothering Erik? I had a feeling he wasn't telling me everything but if I push him he just clams up even more."

"Probably, in part. Oh, I wish he would let me take some of the burden from him, the stupid man," Antoinette said. "I have offered several times, reminded him that choreographer is not my sole job description, but he is so pig-headed - "

"Believe me, Madame, I know that only too well. I married him, remember?"

The other woman stopped, huffed, and then her lips twitched in a slight smile. "Yes. Yes, of course you would. I'm sorry, Christine, I just cannot stand the thought of all the hard work we've put in over the years being wiped away by faceless money men who have no understanding of the theatre. People like Philip de Chagny, for example."

"Well, Philip does come to the theatre, so it's not as though he knows nothing," Christine pointed out. "But he hasn't a clue about production, I agree. Raoul told me that he seems to think modernism, with minimal sets and a reduced orchestra is the way to go."

Madame visibly shuddered. "That kind of thing might be suitable in a certain place and time, when one is being experimental, but in the present climate audiences will be looking for a spectacle, something to distract them from this nightmare we've all been living through."

"Unfortunately, spectacles are expensive. It's all about bums on seats now, Madame, especially if we can only have a limited number of people at a time." Christine grimaced. "I wish it weren't."

"If we do not offer a show people actually want to see, there won't _be_ any bums on seats," Antoinette told her bluntly.

* * *

The television was on when she returned to the bedroom; News 24 with the sound down. A half empty glass of water stood on the bedside cabinet next to the crumpled remains of a foil pill packet and Erik was lying on his back, one hand flung dramatically over his eyes.

"You look like the heroine in a Verdi opera," Christine remarked, amused, putting down her burdens to draw the curtains across. "Ready to die tragically in the final act."

"The analogy of a vampire about to be extinguished by the first rays of sunlight would surely be more appropriate," he replied without moving.

"Rubbish. I don't think you're a vampire. Well, not any more, at any rate."

Erik sat up slightly, eyebrows lifting. "Does that mean you did at one time?"

She shrugged, looking around for the lap desk. "For a couple of days, that's all. Well, can you blame me?"she asked when he just stared at her. "I was reading a lot of supernatural crap back then and for the first few months I only ever saw you under cover of darkness."

"And I look like the undead, of course."

"Only first thing in the morning," Christine assured him with a smile, setting the tray across his knees. "I didn't go as far as carrying garlic or a sharpened stake in my handbag, if that's what you're worried about."

He snorted. "Maybe you should have done," he said. "Given the choice, I think I prefer being the Angel of Music."

"And that's what you'll always be to me." She sat down on the bed beside him and stole a square of buttered toast, nodding towards the TV. "Anything interesting happening?"

"Cases are coming down at last, though even with the vaccinations it's going to be a fair while until we're out of the woods. The damned journalists are still wittering on about summer holidays, as though that were the most important issue facing us!" Erik growled, glaring at the screen.

"It was exactly the same last year; if the headlines weren't screaming about that it was the pubs. I think we just have to accept the fact that we're not going to have a holiday and move on." Christine sighed. "Getting the kids back to school is the big priority as far as I'm concerned, as long as it's safe. She's not saying much but I know Allegra's missing her friends."

"As are you." When she started to protest he shook his head. The movement was slow and gentle as though there was something loose inside it and she winced inwardly. " _I_ may be able to live quite happily without social interaction but I know you need to be able to exchange inconsequential chitchat with other people. Working in the studio with me is no substitute for being part of a theatrical company."

"You have such a wonderful way of putting things, my dearest," she told him. "And for the record, I love doing both. Though it would be nice to have a proper catch-up with Meg, over coffee in that little cafe we found. Or a wander round one of the galleries, looking at something other than the same old four walls."

"Or the same old ugly face."

"Are you in this contrary mood because your head hurts?" Christine enquired, knowing from long experience how utterly impossible he could be if he wanted to. Erik just looked at her and she huffed, leaning back against the headboard. "Eat your toast."

He did, slowly, and she just watched the television, reading the same headlines going round and round at the bottom of the screen until she thought she might throw something at it. The health secretary popped up, making some statement to Parliament and she leaned over Erik to stab the remote, taking great pleasure in making him disappear. It was funny how after poring desperately over the news bulletins a few weeks ago now she could only take them in small doses, unable to stand the barrage of information any longer.

They just sat in companionable silence for a while, Erik finishing his breakfast and Christine booting up the laptop, transferring the files he indicated to Dropbox so that Madame Giry could pick them up.

"So, are you going to tell me what's been going on?" she asked eventually, when he'd put the tray aside and reclined against the pillows once more.

He didn't open his eyes. "Precisely what would you like to know? I've already given you the gist of the idiocy I've had to deal with lately."

"Well, Madame was saying they've been putting pressure on to reduce costs."

"I seem to remember telling you that more than once myself," he objected.

"You didn't tell me which production was being proposed," she reminded him. "Do they seriously want to do _Hannibal_ on the cheap?"

"I'm not exactly fond of Chalumeau's work, as you know, but I made the suggestion based on the fact that it has been one of our biggest successes over the last few years."

"Well, yeah. One smash hit and a sold-out revival in ten years tend to give that impression," Christine agreed. "What do they want to do: make us sing it in a grey box with a couple of chairs and an elephant head on a stick?"

"More or less. It's madness! You know audiences, Christine; if they think they're not getting what they paid for it won't be long before we're left with an empty theatre and even more debts," Erik said, turning slightly to look at her and propping his head on one hand. "If that happens we really _will_ go under. When we return we need a sure-fire hit to pull people in; it's the only way we'll survive."

"And to do that we need to give them an evening they'll never forget." She nodded. "Madame said pretty much the same thing. I wish you'd talk to her about all this, Erik," she added before he could respond. "She can help you, add her voice to yours. And Reyer too - "

"It's not their responsibility, it's mine," he told her firmly.

"How many times do I have to tell you that you don't have to go out on a limb over all this?" she demanded. "Yes, it might be your name that's made the Vanburgh what it is, but we all have a stake in its survival and we all want to help you as much as we can!"

"No. The less the rest of you are involved, the better. You won't get dragged down with me."

Christine frowned. "I don't - "

He sighed, sounding terribly weary, and when he glanced up at her again the look in his heavy eyes was a mixture of anger and sadness. "It was put to me the other day by certain persons that should I not be amenable to their plans another manager/director can easily be found."

"They _wouldn't_ \- !" She stared at him in horror. "The bastards! The complete and utter _bastards_! How do they possibly think that theatre would survive for a week without you?" Erik's shoulder lifted in a half-hearted shrug and she found herself growing hot with anger. Pulling her phone from a pocket she scrolled swiftly through her contacts. "We'll see about that!"

"What're you doing?" he asked, startled by her sudden vehemence.

"I'm going to speak to Raoul. He'll make Phil see sense!"

His fingers closed over hers before she could hit the call icon beside Raoul's name. "No."

"What? Erik - " Christine exclaimed as he deftly removed the phone from her hand and switched it off, dropping it onto the bedside table. "Do you _want_ them to fire you?"

"I do not want to owe my job to that boy because you asked him to beg for it. I know you mean well and I have no doubt he would do it because it was a request from you but I do still have my pride," he said seriously when she just gaped at him. He took her hand in his, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. "Please, Christine. Every success we have had since the _Don Juan_ debacle has been on our own merits and I will not give that up. You do understand that, don't you?

There was a touch of desperation in his gaze now, though his tone was level. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course I do. I just don't want to see you lose the theatre after you've worked so hard."

"Circumstances may yet make that decision before Philip de Chagny and his ilk get a chance. In the meantime I refuse to compromise on the quality of our productions and if they have a problem with that then..." Erik's eyes turned to the bedclothes and their joined hands lying on top. He took a deep breath. "Well, there are plenty more theatres in London, and beyond. We can start again."

Trying not to think about the implications of those words she looked too, at her fingers dwarfed by his long ones, at the plain gold wedding bands they both wore. "You have to be honest with me about what's happening," she told him. "I know you want to protect me, but when I see the stress making you ill like this... you know that it feels like a knife to the gut, don't you?"

"Christine - " he began but she shook her head.

"No, Erik, I mean it. We're married, and that means we share everything; we help to carry each other's burdens. That's what being married _is_ , or had you forgotten?"

"I hadn't forgotten. I just thought..." He exhaled sharply in frustration and looked away, towards the window. "You already have enough on your plate with the kids and I suppose I just didn't see that worrying over me as well would help matters."

"Oh, you fool." Christine touched his cheek, turning him to face her. "I am always going to worry over you because I love you. That's a done deal. Let's just agree that from now on we tell each other everything, however stupid or trivial it seems. OK?"

He held her gaze for a long moment, and then he nodded. "OK."

"Good. I do wonder sometimes, whether we'll ever get it back, the world we had before," she confessed, and he squeezed her hand gently. "I don't just worry about you and the girls; sometimes in the middle of the night I think of what it's going to be like if all the places we used to know just aren't there any more. Not just the Vanburgh. Maybe we won't be able to eat in the same restaurants, or take the kids to the museums on a rainy afternoon like my Dad used to do."

Erik's arm slid round her shoulders and she curled into his side, feeling the ridges of his twisted cheek as he rested it against the top of her head. "I don't think that will happen."

"But what if it does? I'm talking about all the things we used to take for granted, the stuff that seemed like it would be there forever. We could come out of this with nothing recognisable and it scares me."

"We'll have something left," he assured her, kissing her hair. "If nothing else, _The Mousetrap_ will reopen. It's to the West End what the ravens are to the Tower: if it goes the country will collapse."

She couldn't help laughing at that. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I just - "

"The world will always change, Christine. There is absolutely nothing we can do to stop it."

It was logical, of course; time marched on, the world kept turning and it was silly to expect everything to have been preserved in aspic, just waiting for normal life to begin again. But Christine thought of all those familiar people and places that she hadn't been able to see for so long and her heart clenched at the suggestion she might have to accept that they were gone forever. "Maybe not," she said. "It doesn't mean we have to give up without a fight, though."


	9. Music Appreciation

" _You may be right; I may be crazy; But it just might be a lunatic you're looking for - "_

Christine paused the TV, hearing a familiar step in the hall. Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece she nudged Allegra, who was dozing on her shoulder. "Bedtime, toots. You should have gone up nearly an hour ago."

Her daughter yawned, rubbing at her eyes, and gamely tried to sit up straight. "I wanted to watch the rest of the concert."

"Like you saw the first half?" Christine asked, amused. "Go on; you can see the rest tomorrow. I only let you stay up late because Dad's not down here."

"He is now," Erik said from the doorway. Allegra exchanged a guilty look with her mother and jumped up, quickly kissing her before hurrying across the room. She stood on tiptoe and Erik bent almost double so she could so the same for him; he pressed his lips to her forehead and tried to appear stern though his eyes were smiling. "Don't forget to brush your teeth, and try not to wake Gigi when you go upstairs."

"I won't," she promised. "'Night, Mum, 'Night Dad."

"Sweet dreams, darling," Christine called, receiving a wave in response. Erik ruffled his daughter's hair and watched her run from the room before approaching the sofa and sinking down into the cushions, leaning back with a long grateful sigh. Christine regarded him for a minute, glad to see him so relaxed after all the recent tension and pain. "Feeling better?"

"Much." He'd obviously had a shower as his hair was still damp and he was wearing what he would call 'proper' pyjamas, black silk ones with a collared shirt and piping, under a warm dressing gown. She'd often wondered whether his sense of style had been influenced by over-consumption of classic films or if he was just innately old-fashioned and had never really come up with an answer. He reached his slippered feet towards the fireplace. "I think my head might actually stay on my shoulders now."

"That's good to hear." She jumped up, heading for the kitchen. It was chilly in the room despite the gas stove; part of the Thames had frozen over a couple of days earlier and if the Met Office were to be believed there was a chance of more snow. Night time temperatures were dropping below freezing and she could feel it. "Do you want a drink?"

Erik stretched. "My body is craving a scotch, but I doubt my brain would agree. Coffee?"

"I don't think caffeine is a good idea after what you've suffered the last couple of days. There's decaf instant - " He shook his head with a grimace before she could finish the sentence. "Well, I was going to make some cocoa, if that's acceptable to you..?"

He made an aggrieved noise but just said when she raised her eyebrows at him, "If I must be denied caffeine _and_ alcohol, cocoa would be lovely, thank you."

It didn't take long to boil the kettle and dole out milk and chocolate powder into mugs. The kitchen windows were already fogged with condensation. When Christine returned to the living room her husband was peering at the television, at the bearded pianist and his backing band frozen on the screen. "Is something the matter?" she asked, handing him his drink and settling back down beside him, tucking her legs beneath her and making sure the thick fleece of her own dressing gown covered her feet, which were already protected by big fuzzy socks.

"I was just wondering what you were watching."

"Oh! It's Billy Joel Live at Shea Stadium. I recorded it on Sky Arts a few weeks ago but haven't had the chance to look at it until now." She reached for the remote control. "It's OK, I won't subject you to it; I'll leave the rest until tomorrow."

Much to her surprise, he stayed her hand, going so far as to press the play button himself and bringing _You May Be Right_ back to life. Christine just stared at him in amazement, her gaze obviously strong enough to make him turn to look at her in response. His lone brow arched questioningly. "What?"

She frowned. "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?" she demanded with narrowed eyes. " _He_ won't voluntarily listen to anything written after World War One."

"Now that is not true." Erik wagged a long finger in admonishment. "There is nothing specifically wrong with popular music; I have merely stated more than once that the work of modern composers is not suited to your range or style and I stand by that opinion. You are an operatic diva, not a cabaret singer; I can think of very few pop songs written for genuine classical sopranos."

"And who was it that tutored my voice and influenced my style?" she enquired archly. "There's loads of great stuff out there and I've tried to get you to listen to it for years but you've always flung up your hands in horror at the thought of having your delicate musical sensibilities assaulted."

He tutted. "You make me sound like someone's maiden aunt." Returning his attention to the TV, where Billy had slowed things down and segued into _She's Always A Woman_ , he shrugged. "There are many classic songs from the twentieth century with a great deal of melodic integrity and many very able musicians; I don't believe I ever said otherwise. Sadly I can't make a similar case for anything produced since the turn of the millennium; I would very much like to string Simon Cowell up by his ankles and make him listen to his identikit acts on constant rotation for the rest of his life to give him some idea how the rest of us feel."

Christine laughed. "I won't disagree with you there. But are you _sure_ you didn't hit your head in the bathroom last night?" She leaned over to feel his forehead and he squirmed away. "You don't sound like yourself."

"I am perfectly all right. He doesn't exactly have pianist's fingers, does he?" he remarked, blowing on his cocoa and nodding towards the screen. She glanced at his long, thin hands curled around the mug, hands that could more than easily span an octave. Very definitely the hands of a pianist.

"He was a boxer at one point."

Erik's eyes widened and he looked at her as though he thought she must be joking. She shook her head. "Well," he said, "It doesn't seem to have affected his playing."

"I didn't mean – oh, never mind. You're being deliberately provoking again."

He smiled. "Perhaps just a little," he admitted. "He certainly has considerable skill, I'll give him that."

"It's crazy to think that this time last year we thought nothing of packing into stadiums and standing pressed up against other people like that for hours," Christine said absently when the next couple of songs had passed without comment. Watching so many people crushed in together like sardines without a care in the world was a strange experience after so many months of viewing other human beings as a potential threat, something to be kept at arm's length and avoided altogether if possible; it was disorientating in a way, as daily life had changed so much in such a short space of time. "If you'd told the people at this concert what was going to happen to the world a decade or so later they would have thought you were completely mad. It sounds just like something out of a sci-fi novel."

"I expect the same thing would be true if you went back to any given point in time and told the inhabitants of that period what would happen in the future," Erik mused. "We are extremely lucky when compared with previous generations not to have had such large-scale disruption to our lives before."

"It's still weird to watch people behaving normally." She mentally shook herself; she'd made an internal promise not to dwell on the situation and here she was doing it again. "Did you ever want to be in a band?" she asked half-seriously, forcing herself to focus on the musicians instead of the crowd. "When you were younger?"

"I can't say the idea ever occurred to me. If I had it would have from necessity been a one man band."

"I think you'd be good in a band."

Erik nearly choked on his drink. "What on earth makes you say that? I have no experience of playing with other people and little desire to start."

"You play with the orchestra at the Vanburgh sometimes," Christine pointed out. "And with me."

"I am your accompanist. And when I play with the orchestra it is usually to fill in for someone who is missing; I don't do it on a regular basis and I wouldn't want to. In any case, playing in a band is quite different, a much more... intimate experience."

"Maybe we could start one. You on piano and guitar, Mike on the drums. I think Alfie plays bass." She considered. "Eugene Reyer could take care of keyboards and any extra percussion."

"Now that is something I would like to see." He snorted in amusement. "And what would be your contribution? You can't play an instrument."

"I would share vocals with you, naturally. And maybe play the tambourine. Hey, I could be Stevie Nicks!" she concluded with a grin, struck with the idea of floating about the stage in a cloud of chiffon scarves and hairspray. Erik looked unimpressed. "Oh, come on. It would be fun!"

"It would certainly be... something. Fun is not the word I would choose. And what the devil would we call this ludicrous hypothetical group?"

"The Ludicrous Hypotheticals?" Christine suggested.

He sank further down into the sofa cushions, as though trying to hide. "Oh, dear God."

She couldn't help laughing. "You are so very easy to wind up, my darling."

For a few moments they had all but forgotten the television; a sudden eruption of pyrotechnics on the screen made her jump, drawing her attention back to the screen. The piano descended into the stage and Joel returned with a guitar; a moment later to massive cheers from the audience the opening chords and frenetic beat of _We Didn't Start The Fire_ began. Christine sat up, leaning forwards eagerly. "Oh, great! This is one of my favourites. _Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray, South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio -_ "

"What... _why_? It's just... names," Erik objected with a pained expression. "An endless, relentless list of names!"

"Don't care," she told him, drumming in time on the armrest. "It's the tune that matters."

"It doesn't _have_ a tune!"

"Oh, stop being so pedantic! "

"The lyrics are gibberish!" he exclaimed. "' _JFK, blown away_ ' - what does that even _mean_?"

" _What else do I have to say?_ If it has no musical value whatsoever you wouldn't be tapping your foot like that, would you?" she asked mischievously.

He glared at the traitorous appendage, which was still moving, apparently without his permission. "I - "

"Face it, Erik," Christine declared, leaning towards him with a triumphant smile, "It doesn't matter whether you join a band or not, the rhythm _is_ gonna get you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, it’s corny but I wanted to lighten the mood. :)


	10. Cleaning Up

Christine straightened, trying to ignore the complaints her lower back was making, and frowned. "Have you seen your father?" she asked, noticing that according to the clock it was after eleven and she'd categorically told Erik she wanted his help with the housework two hours ago.

"Not since breakfast." Allegra picked up a china ornament, carefully wiping it over with a duster. She stopped for a moment and listened before nodding as though she could hear something that confirmed her suspicions and said with complete confidence, "He's in the study."

"How do you – oh, never mind. The pair of you have ears like bats. Make sure Gigi only dusts the soft things," Christine ordered, seeing her younger daughter head towards the set of glass animals that stood on the sideboard, cloth in hand. Hoping that she wouldn't return to a scene of domestic devastation she slipped into the hall; sure enough, from here she could make out the faint sound of music coming from behind the study door.

The piano in there was an electric model, the dimensions of Erik's precious grand meaning it was too big for the upstairs rooms and had to live down in the studio. She opened the door and found him sitting there with his back to her; even though he was wearing headphones the volume was obviously turned up far enough for sound to leak out. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up, exposing bony forearms, and he was obviously completely caught up in whatever it was that had captured his muse this time. Leaning on the doorframe, Christine strained her ears to make it out; it didn't sound classical, or even like one of his own compositions. In fact, it sounded distinctly modern; well, modern by Erik's standards at any rate, which was a highly irregular occurrence. Her mouth twitched in annoyance as she watched him, utterly oblivious to her presence; taking a tighter grip on the feather duster she was holding she crept across the room, careful to keep out of his peripheral vision, and ran it up his spine, making him almost leap off the piano stool. For good measure, she flicked the duster across his shoulders and over his head; exasperated, Erik tore off his headphones and spun around, glaring at her.

"What the hell was that for?" he demanded in a tone that routinely had new members of the chorus quaking in their shoes.

She tried to hide her smile, folding her arms and refusing to be even remotely intimidated. "Do you recall me saying earlier that today was cleaning day? If you stay still long enough you get dusted; that's the deal."

"Ah." The fury subsided and he actually had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "I thought I told you I had some work to finish?"

"It didn't sound much like work to me," Christine observed. "And anyway,there's another instrument waiting in the hall for you: it's made by Dyson and I need you to play it now."

"Hmm. I'm not keen on its tone; far too harsh." Erik's fingers meandered up the keyboard. Now the headphones were unplugged she could hear the tune properly and it sounded familiar; she found herself humming along for a couple of bars before the words came to her, just as he began to quietly voice them: " _Sing us a song, you're the piano man; sing us a song tonight; well we're all in the mood for a melody; and you got us feeling all right..._ "

"That song was the encore in the concert we watched the other night," she said accusingly, narrowing her eyes. "Are you playing it by ear?"

He shrugged. "Naturally, though there is this useful little place called the internet, where one can find sheet music of all kinds." He shot her a sidelong glance. "You may have heard of it; it's quite popular, I believe."

Christine forced herself not to take the bait. "Erik, why are you playing Billy Joel?" she enquired with exaggerated patience.

"I rather liked the tune." An eyebrow arched. "Is that a problem?"

"Yes, given the fact that the only remotely up to date music I have ever heard you play is the theme from _Star Wars_ , and that was only because Mike and Alfie had a bet that you couldn't have it note perfect with no music and after only hearing it the once."

He smirked. "A bet they subsequently lost."

"They should have known better." Coming further into the room she looked around, at the record deck that sat in the corner and the stack of old LPs in the cabinet below. Though there was a huge collection of CDs of all genres and a state of the art sound system in the house, it had come as no surprise that Erik was one of the first to indulge when vinyl made a comeback; she was quite happy to stick to her old favourites, and to pick and choose from all the digital tracks available, but he insisted that there was no contest when it came to purity of sound. The kids had been fascinated to begin with, watching the big black discs on the turntable, but it didn't take long for them to discover the possibilities offered by changing the speed, a quirk not provided by more modern formats. For several days, much to their amusement anyone who came to hand was turned into Alvin and the Chipmunks until Erik, unable to take any more, whisked the deck away to the study for his use alone.

On further inspection Christine found that there were a couple of albums that seemed to have been played recently; the spines were protruding from the rack slightly more than the others. She pulled them out and discovered Queen's _A Night at the Opera_ and _ELO_ by the Electric Light Orchestra, both of which were well-loved and, along with most of the titles there, had belonged to her father. Turning round, one in each hand, she eyeballed her husband, who was trying to look casual as he noodled away at the piano. He reminded her of Allegra when she knew she'd done something wrong but didn't want to admit it.

"Erik Charles Gabriel Claudin," she said in a dangerous voice, deciding to treat him like a child if he was going to behave like one, "I think you have been lying to me."

"What makes you say that?" he asked evenly, fingers picking out an arpeggio.

"Well, it looks distinctly like you've been listening to my Dad's records, records I gave to you when we got married so that you could find out what wonderful music you were missing out on, and that you have since claimed repeatedly to be too busy to play even once."

Erik hammered out the opening chords of Beethoven's Fifth with a flourish and sat back. "I will admit, it does rather look like that," he agreed. "However, I take issue with the accusation of lying. It has in fact been some considerable time since you last asked me whether I had played any of those albums."

"So what changed?" Christine tipped her head to one side and just looked at him. "Don't tell me: you had an epiphany."

"Of a sort. In truth, I finally had the time to spare and with everything that has been happening over the last year I've also needed a break occasionally." He leaned one arm on the piano and rested his chin on it, his other hand meandering up and down the keys again. "Sometimes it helps to immerse myself in music I've never heard before; it takes my mind off all the other things I need to deal with."

"And you couldn't do that with me, in the living room?" she asked.

"The record player is in here," he reminded her. "Besides, I don't insist on joining you when you're belting out Madonna in the shower, do I?"

"No, but I might let you if you stopped telling me I'm going to ruin my voice."

"Well, you will. She's deeper, and mostly untrained."

"Then I'll work on my lower range," Christine retorted. Her gaze fell back to the two albums that were now lying on the desk. "So... what did you think of these?"

"They are... interesting, certainly," Erik admitted. "There are a few tracks I would be inclined to listen to again. _I'm in Love with My Car_ is _not_ one of them."

She laughed. "I can't really blame you for that."

"Also, that album - " He pointed to the Queen record " – is misnamed. It has nothing to do with opera."

"It was named after a Marx Brothers film. And _Bohemian Rhapsody_ is _mock_ opera."

"If you say so." His nimble fingers teased out the familiar piano line from that particular song, and she was surprised to see that he even went to the trouble of playing the upper notes with his left hand, crossing over his right. When he caught her staring he just lifted his lone eyebrow once more. "Oh, I am aware of some things, you know."

"I sometimes wonder whether I know you at all," she told him, shaking her head. "Are you hiding any more surprises from me?"

He smiled. "That would be telling, wouldn't it?"

"Tease," Christine said, and he chuckled. "Any chance of you allowing this new-found appreciation for modern music to change your mind about the stuff you think I should be singing? I've always fancied doing an album of torch songs, so I could pose on top of a piano like Michelle Pfeiffer in _The Fabulous Baker Boys_."

"That could be dangerous," Erik observed and her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Oh? Why? Because I might fall off?"

"That is a possibility, but to be perfectly honest I would be more concerned for the structural integrity of my piano," he replied, and ducked away when she swatted his head with the duster.

"Are you saying I'm heavy? You rotten - " A crash from the direction of the living room followed by a cry of "Mum! Gi's broken the glass elephant!" cut her off and Christine's heart sank. "Oh, my God... stay where you are and don't touch it!" she shouted back.

Erik winced. "Wasn't that - "

"A wedding present, yes." She closed her eyes, visualising the mess. "I hope she hasn't gone near my mother's crystal birds."

"Better get in there quick before any more damage gets done," he advised, turning back to the piano.

Christine caught his arm before he could touch the keys. "Oh, no, you don't, maestro. I've got a concerto for dustpan and vacuum cleaner that was written just for you."

"I've got too much to - " he protested but she kissed him, which silenced him quite effectively.

"And when you've done that," she continued when she let him up for air, "You can clean up in here."

"Christine - "

"This soloist is taking a break and you're next on the bill." She smiled sweetly and put the feather duster into his hand, closing his fingers around it. "Good luck."


	11. These Dreams

The shining white corridor was so long it seemed to go on forever.

Christine had been walking for what felt like years, trying every door she passed but never finding what she was looking for. All around her she could hear the rattling of hospital trolleys, the beeping of heart monitors, the hushed voices of nursing staff having to break bad news to grieving relatives but she couldn't actually _see_ anything, just the never ending whiteness. She called out so much that her throat was sore from the effort but she never received an answer.

"Erik? Erik, where are you? Where have they taken you?"

" _Christine..._ "

She jumped. That one word floated against her ear on little more than a breath, its warmth almost touching her and she spun around, expecting to see him standing behind her but there was nothing, just the endless passage and its constant parade of blank doors.

"Where are you?" she shouted again.

" _Christine..._ " His voice caressed those two syllables, just as it had done that first night years ago in a darkened theatre, when she had for a few minutes thought she was truly in the presence of a ghost. Dear God, did that mean..? " _Come to me, my angel..._ "

"I can't reach you!" she cried desperately. The doors had vanished; she was standing in a brilliant void, the light bright enough to hurt her eyes. Her name whispered all around, echoes thrown back and forth and growing louder and louder until the constant babbling was all she could hear and she covered her ears, trying to blot it out. "Erik, help me! Please!"

" _Christine!_ "

"Help! I can't find you!"

" _CHRISTINE!_ _Christine, wake up -_ "

* * *

Her eyes snapped open and she found herself staring at a face... no, half a face that loomed out of the darkness, a strange glow in its sunken eyes and its twisted lips leering at her like some inhuman apparition. Something brushed her shoulder and she scrambled away, almost toppling out of the bed; with a scream she lashed out, arms flailing, only to feel an unexpected pain as her hand connected with solid bone. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest, the sound of blood pumping thundering in her ears; there was a muffled curse and whatever had been touching her was suddenly gone. She clutched the covers around her with trembling fingers as there was a soft click and the bedside light came on, silhouetting the tall, skeletal figure of her assailant against its warm orange glow. Christine swallowed as it turned to her...

"For God's sake, Christine, what're you doing?" it asked in Erik's voice and she scrabbled for the light on her own night table, almost melting in relief when she could finally see that it was actually her husband sitting there dabbing carefully at his nose with a tissue. The lumps and ridges of his deformity threw strange shadows across his features and she realised that was what she had seen, not some dreadful unearthly creature conjured up by her panicked mind.

"I don't – did you wake me?" she asked, blinking to try and clear her vision properly; her eyelids felt as though someone had tried to seal them with superglue. She could still hear her heartbeat, loud as a timpani solo.

"You were having a nightmare. You've been restless for hours, waving your arms around as though you were trying to find something; it was like sharing a bed with a mad conductor." He pulled the tissue away and her eyes widened in horror as she saw the spots of bright red blood there. She'd actually _hit_ him - !

"Oh, God... did I... did I hurt you?"

"I'll live. You got the weaker side, not that I have much of a nose to speak of." Erik grimaced. "You have a surprisingly good left hook, even if you were still mostly asleep. I'm impressed."

Christine slid out of the bed and went to the bathroom, returning with a flannel that she'd run liberally under the cold tap. "Don't make jokes," she snapped, sitting down beside him. "Tip your head back; let me see."

With a grumble he obeyed and she gingerly wiped the ruined side where there was little more than a cavity and a thin layer of flesh to cover it. Blood was trickling sluggishly down over his bloated upper lip. "Perhaps you should take up boxing to relieve stress," he remarked. "Though I think I'd appreciate it if you didn't continue to use me as the punch bag."

"What did I just say? I don't think you're badly damaged; hold this against it, it should stop the bleeding." Replacing her hand on the flannel with his Christine quickly shifted away to the end of the bed, hugging herself because she didn't dare touch him again. The adrenalin was draining out of her but now she felt those same only recently heightened nerves quivering with anger. She'd just punched her husband! What the hell was the matter with her? She squeezed her eyes closed, feeling tears start behind them. "I'm sorry," she said, her throat tight, "I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_ , I'm _so_ sorry..."

She felt more than heard him move towards her, but didn't start when his hand rested gently on her arm. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he told her. "It's no worse than the nosebleed I got when that book fell off the shelf and hit me in the face."

"You're not married to that book," Christine whispered, disgusted with herself.

There was a sigh and then Erik was taking her by the shoulders, drawing her close; she resisted but he was far stronger than her and it was too, too easy to give in and huddle against him, resting her cheek on the cool silk of his pyjama shirt while he held her and stroked her hair. "It was an accident," he said firmly. "I shouldn't have startled you awake like that."

"I was dreaming. There was a hospital, and they'd taken you away from me. I walked and walked but there was just this corridor that seemed to go on for miles and miles. I could hear you but I couldn't get to you; you were always too far away, out of my reach." Christine shuddered, feeling cold and knowing it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "I was calling for you, and you were saying my name, over and over... then I woke up, and I saw... I saw... _something_ \- "

"You saw this." When she glanced up he raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the distorted half of his face. "I can't really blame you for thinking you were sleeping next to a monster."

"Don't call yourself a monster. Don't _ever_ call yourself a monster," she said sharply. "I would _never_ think that."

"It was dark and you weren't properly awake. The mind plays tricks; you were just trying to defend yourself." Erik smiled ruefully. "You have to admit that this isn't exactly a pleasant thing to see when you're scared and disorientated in the wee small hours. Once upon a time it used to give me nightmares."

She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tighter. "It's never given _me_ nightmares, I promise. Having you here usually keeps them away."

"So why doesn't it now?" he asked, his tone light, fingers carding through her curls. When she didn't answer he changed tack. "How long have you been dreaming about hospitals?"

"How do you know I haven't just started?" she countered.

"On occasion you have been known to talk in your sleep."

Christine sighed and rubbed fiercely at her eyes, where tears were threatening again. Patting her on the arm Erik rose from the bed, fetching her fleecy dressing gown from the back of the door and wrapping it around her. She just watched in confusion as he shrugged on his own robe and reached out to take her by the hand, guiding her to her feet.

"Come on," he said. "Let's talk about this downstairs."

* * *

A few minutes later she was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her reflection in the window as Erik made tea.

She'd insisted on checking on the girls, worried they might have been woken by the commotion but thankfully both were still sleeping soundly, Gigi completely burrowed beneath the duvet while Allegra had almost managed to kick hers onto the floor, lying face down with one foot sticking over the side of the mattress. Erik tutted fondly as he replaced the errant bedclothes before leading Christine down the stairs, not even bothering to turn on any lights until he reached the kitchen door. Deeming the kettle and microwave too noisy for such and early hour, he was instead heating a pan of water on the stove, moving gracefully from hob to cupboard to fridge and back again as though following a piece of music in his head. It reminded her of the early days of their relationship, before they were married, when she would find watching him do the most mundane things absolutely fascinating. Sometimes she still did.

"Here." He put down a steaming mug in front of her and added three sugars, stirring it first one way and then the other. She just looked at him in surprise and he nodded grimly, sitting down on the opposite side of the table. "It's good for shock."

She blew on the tea, feeling the heat flushing her face and dampening her fringe. "Is your nose very sore?" It had stopped bleeding but there was a slight swelling around the nasal cavity.

He touched it delicately. "There's nothing broken; I'm sure I'll survive." For several long moments his gaze was fixed on the tabletop until, frowning, he knitted his fingers together and glanced up at her. "This dream... the one about hospitals..." he said, the words unusually hesitant. "Was it brought on by Sonia down the road being taken in? Jack was walking his dog when I went to fetch the bin yesterday and he said she's going to be all right; they're treating her with one of those new drugs and her breathing is back under control."

Christine shook her head. "It's not that, not entirely."

"Then what?" Erik leaned forwards, resting a hand over hers where it cradled her mug. "You can tell me."

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's Dad's anniversary coming; it'll be fifteen years since he passed away next month. I was thinking about him the other day, how I was too late to see him before he died and had to walk into that ward to say goodbye to him with all those people staring at me." At the back of her mind she could still see the eyes, feel the gaze of the nurses and auxiliaries as they watched her approach the bed and its ominously-closed curtains. She blinked, trying to push the memory away, and raked her fingers through her hair, glancing at herself illuminated against the pitch black garden outside. There were bags big enough to hold the weekly shopping under her eyes and her un-brushed curls were wild, exploding all over the place. The sight almost made her laugh; Erik had once jokingly described her bed-head appearance as that of a labradoodle in a tumble drier. "And then I remembered how horrible it was seeing you there after _Don Juan_ and wondering whether I was going to lose you, too and I couldn't go through it all again, I just _couldn't_."

"Hey." He squeezed her fingers. "You didn't. I'm still here, no thanks to Joe Buquet."

Christine tried to smile. "Yes, I know you are. It seems ridiculous now, but it felt so real."

"That kind of dream always does. I've had enough of them myself." A dark look passed over his face and he almost suppressed a shudder. "More than enough."

"My subconscious has been all over the place lately; I've been dreaming about people I haven't seen in years, people I don't even _want_ to see. I've been in really weird places: the other night I was on top of the Shard, talking to one of the mermaids from the fountain in Trafalgar Square and a Notre Dame gargoyle. Isn't that nuts?" He didn't answer and she took a sip of tea, drawing in a deep breath. "I suppose all of this is just getting to me," she admitted. "The theatre, wondering when they're going to class you as vulnerable enough to be called for a jab, whether the kids will be safe going back to school... it's all too much sometimes."

"Hmm." Erik sat back in his chair, eyebrow arching. "And what happened to from now on we tell each other everything, no matter how stupid or trivial? I seem to recall those were your exact words when things were getting on top of me."

She groaned and folded her arms, sinking her head down into them. "I know," she mumbled, her voice muffled by her sleeves. "I know, I know, I know..."

Chair legs scraped on the floor as he got up and she groaned again; he was probably going to return to bed and leave her here to stew. A few days ago she had been the one berating him for keeping things from her and now she'd been doing exactly the same. She couldn't really blame him for being annoyed with her; in his position she knew she would have felt the same way. It was nice in this dark cave she'd made for herself and she was wondering whether she might be able to stay there forever when she felt something heavy being laid across her shoulders and realised Erik had fetched the throw from the living room sofa and draped it over her.

"Sorry," she said into the table. "I thought I was coping OK."

"I forgive you."

Christine looked up, peering at him through a tangle of hair. "Do you think I'm going crazy?"

"Possibly." One shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug. "However, I very much doubt it. You're not the first one to experience vivid dreams over the last year; I remember having a few of my own that were deeply peculiar."

"I know; you woke me up more than once." She propped her head on one hand. "So what do we do about it?"

Erik took a long drink of his cooling tea. "I don't know if there is anything we _can_ do about the dreams, but we can certainly start talking to each other more, as you made me promise last week. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Though... if we're discussing dreams, can we leave out the... er, embarrassing bits?" she asked, feeling her face redden.

His brow lifted again. "I think I'd prefer it."

"Thank goodness for that."

"Though you have naturally just made me curious..." he said, lips twitching.

"You can be evil, sometimes, Erik Claudin," Christine told him with a half-hearted glare and he chuckled, sweeping up her empty mug and taking it to the sink. With the overhead light on all that could be seen in the window was the reflection of themselves and the kitchen around them, the garden outside virtually invisible except through the void created by Erik's black dressing gown. "I shouted at Gigi this morning," she confessed, watching him wash the cups. "I didn't mean to, but she wouldn't eat her breakfast and I just snapped."

"I know. She came running to me and said that Mummy was being scary."

She stared at his back, horrified. "Oh, God, was she very upset? I never wanted to be one of those mothers who yell at their kids, but she was just being stubborn for no reason; you know how she gets sometimes. What did you tell her?"

"That Mummy was under a lot of pressure at the moment and being naughty really wasn't helping." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "She was a bit tearful but it didn't take long to cheer her up again. I think you shocked her more than anything."

"I made her cry. I made my own daughter cry." She felt tears prickle again in her own eyes and wiped at them in annoyance. "I'm a terrible mum."

"No, you are not, and you know that," Erik said, crouching down at her side. He opened his arms to her and she crumpled into a hug; it was somewhat awkward but felt good. "Things like this are going to happen; it's inevitable when we're all stuck here together day after day. We're stressed, the kids are bored, and worried in their own way about what's going to happen. It would be strange if we didn't butt up against each other from time to time."

"I know, but Gigi's just a baby - "

"And because of that she will bounce back quickly," he assured her. "She's probably already forgotten about it."

"I hope so." Christine sighed. "For some reason this lockdown seems longer than the first, even though it's not. At least last time it was spring and we could get outside, even if it was just into the garden. I'm starting to think that I need really to get out of here before I go mad."

"We all need to get out of here. We've been cooped up inside for far too long; it's having an adverse effect on everyone."

"But what can we do about it? It's illegal to go pretty much anywhere at the moment," she reminded him.

He glanced at the clock on the oven, which was announcing in bright red numbers that it was nearly four AM. "Well, we can go back to bed until seven o'clock and then we wake the girls." When she opened her mouth to object he just stood, taking her hands and lifting her out of her seat as though he was ushering her onto a dance floor. "If we leave before breakfast the park should be fairly quiet. They can take their scooters, and we can get some fresh air."

"I thought you weren't keen on leaving the house?" Christine asked as he flicked off the kitchen light.

"In this case I'll make an exception," he said, closing the door behind them. "There are too many cobwebs hanging around that need to be blown away."


	12. Panic! On the Doorstep

Safe.

That was the word running through Christine's mind as she divested Gigi of her duffel and her daughter looked just as relieved to be back inside the house. Safe at home again. Safe within their own four walls, where no one could reach them. Where no one could reach _her_. Suddenly she had an overwhelming desire to be alone; the walk was meant to have cleared her head but it hadn't worked. There were more doubts crowding her mind than had been there before, doubts that she hadn't even realised she had until she tried to cross the threshold; it had been all she could do not to hang onto the doorframe like a toddler and refuse to be moved. Her fingers were clumsy as she unbuckled Gigi's shoes and she knew that she had to get away for a few minutes.

"That was fun!" Allegra declared, oblivious to her mother's distress as she kicked off her trainers, aiming her own coat in the general direction of the rack. "You should come to the park more often, Dad; I go much higher on the swings when you push me, nearly over the top!"

"You mean that, despite the grumbling when I dragged you out of bed, you don't actually mind getting up this early?" Erik asked, surprised. He retrieved the discarded jacket and handed it back, pointing deliberately towards the hooks. "Wonders will never cease."

She shrugged. "It was nice having the playground to ourselves. There're always too many people around the rest of the time and I don't really like that any more; it feels weird. Can we go again next week?"

"Perhaps." He paused, and Christine could feel his gaze on her back as she headed for the stairs. Of course he'd noticed the fear that had gripped her the moment she stepped into the street, despite her attempts to hide it in front of the children; there was very little that escaped his attention, especially when it came to her emotions. Her nerves were still thrumming now, a jittery feeling deep inside that seemed to have taken over her body. It felt as though an electric cable had been run up her spine, a sensation she hadn't experienced since she first stepped out on stage alone; then it had disappeared when the spotlight found her and the music began, but now she had no idea how to get rid of it. All she knew was that right now she couldn't handle any more chatter; Allegra had been talking nonstop on the way back from the park and though Erik listened patiently Christine could feel the tension in his grip as she held onto his hand and knew that he was well aware of what was happening to her. She glanced down for a moment and his eyes met hers; without looking away he patted their eldest on the shoulder and suggested, "Why don't the two of you go and watch something on TV? I'll make breakfast in a little while."

Allegra's face lit up. "Ooh, can we have pancakes?"

"I may consider it. Now shoo; I need to speak to Mum for a minute."

Christine carried on towards the landing as quickly as she could, knowing he was following but not sure how to stop him short of running ahead and slamming the door and she wasn't really sure she wanted to shut him out in any case; his long stride took the stairs two at a time and he wasn't far behind her by the time she reached their bedroom. She crossed to the window, twisting the blind cord between her fingers and staring blindly out, hating herself for tensing when she felt his arms slip around her waist, lips pressing against her hair. "I'm a failure," she said, her voice sounding small and scared.

"No, you're not," he told her.

"Easy for you to say; your legs weren't shaking the moment you got outside."

"How do you know that?" Erik countered lightly. "I just might be better at hiding it than you."

She turned in his embrace; he'd come after her so quickly he was still wearing his own coat and hat. Annoyed at not being able to see him properly she reached up and pulled off the fedora, throwing it onto the bed. "You didn't really want to go out in the first place, did you?"

"That's true, but I did, because _you_ wanted to." He regarded her, head on one side, a frown touching his forehead. Even though they ventured out early in the day he had applied one of the expensive facial prosthetics he kept for those occasions when he was likely to be seen by strangers; it was matched as close as possible to his skin tone, padded to give the illusion of a proper right cheekbone and nose and was almost invisible unless one stood very close, attracting far less attention than the off-white half mask he usually favoured. He didn't wear them very often as the glue required to attach them irritated his damaged skin. "Or at least I _thought_ you wanted to."

"I _did_ , you know I did. I wanted _so_ much to get out of here, just lately it's seemed sometimes like I'm suffocating, but the moment I left the house I felt as though I was going to be sick!" Christine blurted, everything suddenly pouring out. "It's horrible; I'm trembling inside and it's as if I've been electrified, and all because we were going to the park, a place I've been hundreds of times before." She stared up at him, desperately. "That's not right, is it?"

He sighed. "Oh, Christine."

"Well, it's not, is it?" she insisted, reluctantly allowing him to lead her over to the bed and sit her down. "Please tell me I'm not mad because it really feels like it to me."

"We've already established that you're not mad," Erik said, taking her hands in his. "Far from it. Under normal circumstances your fight or flight reflexes wouldn't need to go into overdrive like this, but these aren't normal circumstances. It's perfectly natural to be apprehensive about something you haven't done for a long time. Think of it as a form of stage fright."

"Stage fright goes away."

"And so will this, once you get used to going out and about again." His thumb caressed her knuckles. "It's only when it takes over, stopping you from functioning properly, that you need to worry."

Inexplicably irritated by his calmness, Christine pulled away, returning to the window. This was wrong; it was normally _her_ job to be the reasonable one, to soothe him when he flew to the heights of irrationality and had to be talked back down. She crossed her arms tightly, trying to stop the internal juddering. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time."

"I don't think so. I can't see any signs of that yet."

"And of course you're the expert," she said, the words emerging more sharply than she intended.

"I wouldn't exactly call myself an expert, but I do have some experience," Erik retorted, his tone equally brittle. "I've seen plenty of psychiatrists and counsellors in my time."

There was an uncomfortable pause, and Christine made herself exhale a long, slow breath. "Yes," she murmured eventually. "Yes, I know you have."

"Christine - " He'd got up again; she glanced over her shoulder to see him standing a couple of feet away, hands hovering in midair as though he was suddenly wary of touching her. There was worry in his eyes but his expression was earnest. "Darling – I'm not trying to trivialise your feelings, truly I'm not. I'm just... well, I just want you to understand that this _will_ pass, and so will the dreams and everything else. It's the situation that's the problem, not us; we've become so used to behaving like hermits that it's going to take a while to get used to being _people_ again."

She huffed a laugh. "You _like_ being a hermit."

"Yes. Well. That's just me. I'm not normal at the best of times." The silicone covering his twisted cheek wrinkled around mouth and eye as he offered her a smile. He knew more than anyone how it felt to face your fears; had it not been for her he might still be hiding away at the theatre, forever prey to demons and paranoia and hardly ever interacting with the rest of the human race. Getting married, holding down a job, having children, becoming a person rather than a shadow had been terrifying for him, yet he had done it anyway. The confident, commanding front he presented to the world carefully hid the moments of self-doubt that still sometimes plagued him, a metaphorical mask in addition to the real one.

"You must think me silly and self-indulgent."

Erik shook his head. "Never. These feelings are always very real when you're the one having to endure them." Now he held out his arms and she accepted the hug. "If you think you might be depressed we can try and get an appointment with the doctor, but I'm not sure you are." Pulling back slightly he looked down at her, mismatched gaze concerned. "Do you feel depressed?"

"No. No, I feel absolutely shattered, and like I need either a good cry or a good scream, but I don't think I'm depressed," Christine said, and his shoulders slumped slightly in relief.

"If that's what you need you can scream to your heart's content in the studio; no one will hear you."

"Uh-uh. I don't trust you not to record it and use it in some dark and nightmarish symphony you're composing."

His eyebrow rose. "Would I do a thing like that?"

"Of course you would if you thought it might be useful creatively," she replied, unable to help smiling herself when he pretended to look affronted.

"Well, perhaps," he conceded, resting his chin on top of her head. She hugged him fiercely, comforted by the way their bodies naturally fitted together after so many years. "Are you calming down a little now?"

Christine nodded, the wool of his overcoat scratchy against her face. "Am I going to have to go through this every time I want to go outside?"

"It might not be for long. As you know yourself from performing, the more often you do something, the easier it gets."

"I had a feeling you were going to say something like that," she said with a grimace. "Don't you get tired of being right all the time?"

Erik laughed. "It's true, though, isn't it?"

"Yes." She sighed. "I suppose in that case we had better go back again next week."

"That's my girl." He kissed her forehead and released her, moving towards the bathroom. His fingers teased at the edge of the prosthetic. "Now, I really need to get this thing off before my face looks even worse than usual."

The tension finally draining out of her Christine flopped down on the bed, feeling suddenly exhausted as the strain and the disturbed night before caught up. She pulled a pillow towards her, toeing off her shoes and curling up into a ball, tugging a corner of the throw that covered the duvet over her shoulders. It was so warm and soft that she had nearly nodded off when the mattress beside her dipped and she opened her eyes to see Erik there, minus coat and silicone mask, looking down at her with fond amusement.

"Shall I leave you here, or would you like some breakfast?" he asked.

She snuggled in a bit deeper. "Can't I do both?"

He shrugged. "Well, I did have a request for pancakes and there's every chance they would be cold by the time I was able to bring some up here..."

"Shrove Tuesday was _last_ week," Christine objected.

"What does that matter? Are you sure you don't want any?" He bent his head, trying to catch her gaze. "Not even with raspberries and whipped cream?"

Drawing on her reserves of willpower, she deliberately burrowed further beneath the blanket. Unfortunately, her stomach decided at that moment to remind her that she hadn't eaten since the previous evening, announcing the fact with a very loud and embarrassing rumble.

"Maple syrup and bacon?" Erik suggested and she dragged her head upright to see that his lips were twitching.

"Have I ever told you that you would make a wonderful devil, sitting on my shoulder?" she enquired. "I can just see you with a beard and a pair of horns."

"From angel to devil; how the mighty are fallen," he mused, and she squealed in surprise when he hooked an arm beneath her shoulders and knees and lifted her off the bed, pillow and all. She instinctively wound her arms around his neck to stop herself falling, even though she knew he could bear her weight perfectly easily. "I must check for a forked tail when I next have a shower."

Christine thought that was an activity in which she would be quite happy to join but didn't say so. "Fallen angels can exist; isn't that what happened to Lucifer?"

"Very probably," Erik agreed, carrying her towards the door, the throw trailing across the floor behind them. On the threshold he stopped, hefting her a bit higher, and raised an eyebrow. "But was he any good with batter and a frying pan?"


	13. Monday in the Park with Meg

"Christine!"

After so many weeks indoors with just her family to talk to on a daily basis, Christine jumped at the sound of her own name. She was already feeling nervous at being outside again in a wider open space than her back garden; it had been months since she last braved the park on her own, on her most recent trip a couple of days before still hanging onto Erik's hand for reassurance almost as much as Gigi. He had encouraged her to take up the opportunity to meet Meg for coffee, convinced that she would soon relax with her best friend to chat to, but Christine wasn't so sure. Though it was still fairly early there were plenty of people around, doing the same as her and taking advantage of their first day to officially see a friend for more than just exercise; she found herself instinctively moving whenever anyone came too close, and wondered how long it would take her to retrain herself to stand next to a stranger without flinching when restrictions finally came to an end.

Following the announcement of the government's 'roadmap' to unlocking she wasn't quite sure whether to feel excited or terrified at the prospect of eventual freedom; Allegra had been texting her friends the minute she found out she could return to school but Christine just sat there in a kind of daze, not quite believing that the end of the nightmare might finally be in sight. They had, after all, been here before, and more than once over the last year; hopes had been raised and dashed too many times. When Erik asked if she was all right her immediate response was yes, and though she knew he wasn't entirely convinced he did at least wait until they were in bed before he challenged her over it. She spent some time trying to articulate her fears, and while he couldn't completely allay them he tried his best and she did at least sleep better afterwards.

She turned now to see Meg hurrying towards her, dodging in and out of joggers and dog walkers, and couldn't help smiling at the sight of her friend in the flesh after so many weeks: the little dancer was trying to run, wave and carry a folded blanket and a cup of takeaway coffee at the same time, her blonde ringlets escaping from beneath a knitted beanie and an overstuffed handbag swinging madly from one shoulder. When they were a few feet apart she had to make a visible effort to pull up short and keep her distance, checking her instinctive desire to fly in for a hug; looking Christine up and down her eyes narrowed and she said accusingly,

"You've had a haircut."

"What, this?" Christine fingered the recently-tidied ends of her own curls, reflexively glancing around in case anyone was listening. "Erik did it the other day. I've been trimming his hair, and the kids', so he returned the favour; my split ends were getting terrible."

"Of course, I should have guessed that husband of yours is secretly Nicky Clarke. Is there anything he can't do?" Meg complained, and Christine tried not to laugh.

"Yes," she said, managing to keep a straight face. "Replace the fan belt on a 1999 Renault Clio and tap dance."

Her friend just looked at her for a long moment, apparently considering whether to believe her or not, before her face broke into a beaming grin. "Oh, Chris, it's _so_ good to see you!" she declared. "I still can't believe we've had to go through all this again! I've been desperate for a good old face to face gossip; phone calls and Skype are no substitute, there's too much chance of being overheard."

"By your mother, certainly. How is Madame? I haven't spoken to her for a couple of weeks."

"Thoroughly enjoying getting stuck into the problems at the Vanburgh, though if you asked her she would deny it," Meg said as they fell into step, keeping the requisite space between them. "I sometimes think she's never happier than when things are going wrong; it gives her the right to say 'I told you so' and you know how much she enjoys that."

It felt good to be strolling in the open air, talking to someone to whom she wasn't related for a change, and as Erik had predicted Christine found her tension ebbing. "Has she managed to get Phil and co to back down about the funding for _Hannibal_? Erik said he was leaving that argument to her; now we've got an opening date to work towards he's been discussing the rest of the programme with Jimmy for the last few days so I haven't heard anything more."

"I don't think so. They're all being so stubborn about it I don't think anyone is going to give way. It's a shame we still have to socially distance; I'd love to see Erik get in there and bash a few heads together."

"So would I, but I think he's doing his best not to antagonise anyone after that shouting match a few weeks ago. His job is potentially on the line if he doesn't do as he's told," Christine clarified when Meg looked confused. The little dancer's eyes widened and her mouth fell open in shock.

" _No_! Are you serious? Christine, that's terrible!" she cried, lowering her voice when a couple passing on the other side of the path turned to look. "How can they even think of sacking him? Erik _is_ the Vanburgh!"

" _I_ know that, _you_ know that, but evidently Phil de Chagny and his mates don't. Either that or they don't care, but whatever the reason it's not good."

"Well, that's just confirmed what I've always thought: Philip de Chagny is a first rate dick," Meg said firmly. "Can't Raoul - "

Christine shook her head. "Erik won't let me ask him, and I understand why. He doesn't want to keep his job purely because the top investor's brother begged for it." Before the other woman could object, she spotted an empty patch of grass well away from anyone else and headed in that direction. "Don't mention it to him, or Madame, please; I wasn't supposed to say anything."

"Well, all right, but I think it's a mistake," Meg replied, following her. She shook out the blanket and laid it on the ground; they had both agreed that it would be less stressful to have their coffee picnic style than to try and nab a bench when so many other people were about. As she settled herself Christine took out the thermos she had brought from home; she wasn't comfortable with the idea of drinking anything she hadn't made herself yet. "If Phil forces Erik out I bet the other investors will follow him."

"Erik knows that. It's why he's toeing the line for now, until Jimmy can sound them out."

"You mean there could be a coup in the offing?" Meg's eyebrows rose and she shuffled a fraction closer, ears pricked up. "Ooh, tell me more, tell me more."

"I can't because I don't _know_ any more and if I did and I told you Erik would kill me." Her friend just blinked, bewildered by that statement and Christine sighed in frustration. "Oh, hell, Meg, it's just too complicated. Do you mind if we change the subject?" she asked, pouring the coffee and putting down a cup on the expanse of rug between them. "I've had to deal with it at home for ages and I really don't know how much more of theatre politics I can put up with before I go completely round the twist."

Meg shrugged. "OK, fair enough," she agreed. "I can't say I blame you. Different topic: how're the kids doing?"

That was a relief; it was much easier to talk about her family. "Not too badly, under the circumstances. We decided to keep Gigi at home, for the next couple of months at least; she's nervous of going out and I need to get her used to being around people again before I send her back to nursery."

"Aww, the poor baby. I miss her; you'll have to bring her with you next time. What about my goddaughter?"

"Keen to get back to school. I dropped her off before I came here. She's over the moon at seeing her friends again; I barely got a wave goodbye." It was true; as soon as Allegra saw her little group she virtually forgot about her mother and was out of the car in a flash.

"Are they still letting her wear a mask?" Meg asked, blowing on her drink. "I heard that the official line was that they're not recommended for primaries."

"Yes, thankfully they made an exception, and she's been very good, knows exactly what to do when it comes to changing it and to keep used masks separate. I know it's not really needed for her protection, but I don't want to take any risks with Erik," Christine admitted. "At least not until he's had his first jab."

"Sounds perfectly sensible to me. I suppose it can't be too long now until he gets called."

"The NHS letter actually came last week, but he's waiting for our surgery to make contact; he thinks that if he goes to one of the hubs he'll have to remove his mask so they can confirm his identity and he'd rather not do that in front of strangers." She could appreciate his reluctance. At least their own doctors knew exactly what the problem was and treated it with sensitivity. "Hopefully it will be soon; we'll take up the twice-weekly tests for ourselves but it'll still be a weight off my shoulders when it's done."

Meg closed her eyes, turning her face up towards the sun. It was surprisingly warm considering it was only the beginning of March and Christine contemplated taking off her coat. There were crocuses peeping up through the grass, and even the odd daffodil, nature coming to life again after what had felt like a very long winter. "So where is our esteemed director and overlord? Cooking up some new piece to blow the audience's socks off? If not, he should be; we desperately need one."

"Not today; he's looking after Gigi until his mother arrives to take over. They're meant to be practising her reading but when I left the pair of them were watching _The Muppet Show_ ; I'm not sure who was enjoying it more."

"You sound a bit irked by that, Chris," her friend observed, amused.

"Well, yes. I wanted to watch it too," Christine replied seriously, and they both laughed. She gazed out across the park for a while, sipping her coffee and watching the people walking by, those with prams and pushchairs, the lads on skateboards who looked far too old for such a pastime, the cyclists whizzing through it all with little regard to anyone else. Keeping half an eye out for police officers she tried her best not to feel annoyed by the groups of three, four or more who were pre-empting the loosening of the rules. "Does this feel weird to you?" she asked.

"Not really, but then Mum and I have been coming out for walks fairly regularly. We have to, or we'd probably have killed each other by now; lockdown in a flat will do that to you," Meg said, only half joking.

"Of course; I'd forgotten you don't have a garden."

"Who cares about a garden? I'd rather have a studio, the space to properly move," the little dancer replied, leaning back on her elbows and stretching out her legs, flexing her feet back and forth. "Half the internet must be familiar with my front room by now; I wonder if they're as sick of the sight of it as I am?" She glanced over at Christine, brows raised. "You've been spending too much time indoors; if I know Erik he'll have had that house virtually hermetically sealed."

"Oh, it's not his fault; I'm as bad. I just don't like taking chances. If anything happened to him, or the kids, I'd never be able to forgive myself. I still wake up sweating some nights thinking I haven't washed my hands after taking in a parcel," Christine admitted.

Meg shook her head. "That way lies madness, my friend."

"I know, but I've been living this way, trying to control everything as much as I can, for so long it's hard to stop."

"True, true," Meg agreed with a gusty sigh, regarding her toes. "The sooner we can start getting back to reality the better. You know, I was looking at holidays the moment the announcement was made; couldn't help myself. I need something to look forward to. What do you think about two weeks in Italy come July?"

"I think that may be jumping the gun just a little," Christine told her, adding quickly, "But I promise that you and Madame are invited round for lunch in the garden on Easter Sunday, no excuses."

"It might rain."

"I don't care if it pours down; we'll put up an awning. Mind you, it might involve climbing over the back fence and I'm not sure if under the new rules you'll be allowed to use the cloakroom..."

Meg grinned. "That won't put us off. We'll be there if it means bringing a ladder and crossing our legs all day. We've all been kept apart way too long!"

That was a sentiment with which Christine wholeheartedly agreed.


	14. Let’s Get Things Started

Gigi was in the kitchen with her grandmother when Christine returned, watching the birds jostling over the nuts in the feeder through the window.

"How's it going?" she asked, throwing her keys onto the table where they landed amongst the picture books, paper and colouring pencils that littered the surface.

"We've seen a bluetit, three goldfinches and a thrush," Angela reported, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. "You certainly have a wider range of wildlife here than I see in my garden."

Gigi looked up at her and frowned. "And a robin!"

"Oh, yes, and a robin. I stand corrected. He was very tame; came right up to the window until next door's cat scared him off." Erik's mother abandoned the birds and began to tidy up the mess, shuffling the pages covered in Gigi's scribbles together while Christine washed her hands. "Did you have a nice walk?"

"Mmm, I hadn't realised how much I've missed speaking to other people in the flesh. Meg is just the same as always; before we left she was plotting which bar she was going to patronise first when they reopen." Christine filled the kettle and switched it on, hunting through the cupboard for the teabags. "I really hope she's not planning to drag me on a pub crawl; I'm too old for that now."

"Nonsense, you're barely thirty-five. You should be enjoying yourself, making the most of your youth while you have the chance."

"I doubt Erik would agree; his reaction the one time I came home drunk years ago after a closing night party doesn't bear repeating. No, maybe I'm too sensible rather than too old," Christine mused. "Meg doesn't have the same responsibilities."

Angela sat down at the table; after a beat Gigi climbed onto her lap, thumb in her mouth. "That is very true. I've always been surprised that she hasn't settled down with someone; you'd think the boys would be queuing up to court such a pretty, bubbly girl."

"They are, and she's gone out with plenty of them, even stayed with one or two for a while, but she never seems to have wanted anything permanent. Maybe that's Madame's influence; Meg's seen her mother make her way through life as a strong, independent woman unencumbered by men and she doesn't want to be tied down. Either that or she's just incredibly hard to please," Christine said, replacing the milk in the fridge. "It's probably the second one."

"I suppose that's understandable," he mother-in-law said with a sigh. "We can't all find our Prince Charming."

There wasn't much Christine could say to that, and so she busied herself with the tea. "Have there been any calls while I was out?" she asked, keeping her tone deliberately casual. Conversations about Angela's abandonment by her husband inevitably led to the mess that had been Erik's childhood and that could go into some very dark places, none of which she wanted to traverse right now.

"Two, I think, both for Erik. After the last one his face suddenly lit up as though he'd had a Eureka moment and he disappeared into the study. That was a couple of hours ago, and I haven't seen him since."

Gigi giggled. "He looked like Kermit when he gets excited."

"I hardly think your father would appreciate being likened to a frog," Christine said, her traitorous mouth curving upwards in a smile until an unpleasant thought occurred to her. "I hope that doesn't make me Miss Piggy."

"No. You're not as funny as Piggy," the little girl replied, causing her mouth to fall open in surprise.

"Ah," she said, bemused. "Maybe I should work on that, then."

"No, Mummy, you've got it wrong. You're nicer," Gigi declared firmly, adding after a moment's consideration, "And a _much_ better singer."

It took a moment for Christine to digest that. Angela looked amused. "She's right," she said, smiling.

"I'm a better singer than a pig. That's good to know." Christine laughed, shaking her head. "I suppose I should tell Erik; he'll be absolutely thrilled all that time and effort didn't go to waste."

* * *

"Can I come in?"

Erik looked up in surprise as she eased the door open. "You're back early; did Meg not want to chat?"

"Meg and I were chatting for over three hours," Christine said. "Have you not looked at the clock? It's lunchtime."

"Sorry." He pushed his hair back; he'd obviously been running his fingers through it as it was sticking up untidily. There were graphite smudges on his cheek. "I got rather caught up."

"So I see." She came to perch on the arm of his chair. "What're you doing?"

There were large sheets of paper strewn across his desk, along with several professional drawing pens and an expensive set of coloured and sketching pencils, equipment she hadn't seen him use in a long time and which was usually locked away in a drawer to keep it from being appropriated by the enthusiastic young artists of the house. Some of the pages were covered with scribbles not unlike those Gigi had been producing, swathes of colour and vague form, others more detailed, with figures and lettering. Christine picked one up.

"'The Three Graces'," she read, holding it at arm's length so she could get the full effect. Three female figures stood before a red theatrical curtain, an old-fashioned microphone in the foreground. The women were wearing long, column dresses with sweeping hems, the merest hint of sequins sketched in here and there. "What is it? A poster design?"

"In a way. I had an idea after speaking to James earlier. It's been agreed to hold _Hannibal_ back to the summer, when we're more likely to be allowed a full audience," Erik said. "We won't make back the costs running at fifty percent capacity, not if we want to make it a spectacular."

"And that decision sent you in here to draw pictures of faceless singers? Not that I'm complaining – they're beautiful – but I don't quite understand."

He leaned forwards, tapping another of the sketches, one that appeared to be a series of drapes, each overlaying the last; Christine imagined that the effect of lifting each one would be quite mesmerising. "We need something to open with, and what better than a concert, a showcase for our most stunning voices?"

"You mean - "

"You, Theodora and Marie Durant, singing the best pieces we can produce. It would be a perfect delight for the ears, as well as a balm for the soul, and that's what's needed at present. Plus, it is simple, we won't need a huge orchestra and we can put it together much more quickly and cheaply than a staged production, all of which would keep those who hold the purse strings off my back for a little longer." He glanced at her, brow raised. "What do you think?"

She looked at the sketches again; he'd obviously been working out the look of the set, as well as possible publicity, and all in a morning. No wonder he'd looked excited; the creativity must have been absolutely flowing through him. It reminded her of those days in his flat under the theatre, when he would spend days and nights obsessively writing wonderful music and designing productions that would have been marvellous to watch, desperate to get them out of his head even though they were destined never to go any further. "I think it's a great idea," she said, and Erik relaxed. "Does this mean I get to be Michelle Pfeiffer after all?"

His lips twitched. "We'll see. I suppose since the grand piano at the Vanburgh is older and I didn't pay for it I don't mind so much if it were to collapse - "

"Wretch." Christine slapped his arm. "I'm sure Phil and the others will go for this without much persuasion. Meg and I had an idea too, actually," she added as he began to roll up the drawings, sliding them into a carrying case.

"Oh, yes?"

"Mmm. We thought about a vaudeville evening; you know, singing, dancing, comedy, possibly some magic. The audience could be encouraged to join in, maybe even dress up." When he didn't respond she tried again. "It would be fun, something light-hearted after all the horrible things everyone has been through in the last year." Still silence. He was looking away, gathering up his pens, and she groaned inwardly, wishing she'd never brought it up. "You don't like it, do you?"

Erik shrugged. "It sounds rather... old-fashioned? I'm not sure if audiences appreciate that sort of thing any more, and if they do... we have singers aplenty, but where are we going to find decent comedians, or magicians, for that matter?"

"You ask that when half the entertainment profession is out of work?" Christine asked, and he had the grace to look contrite. "Anyway, I didn't mean hiring other people; our own company comes first."

"And how many comedians do we have on the staff?"

"Mike and Alfie have been working on a double act for ages; they did a couple of fairly well received gigs before everything went off the rails and I think there might be some footage on YouTube if you want to take a look."

He snorted. "Well, they certainly have a less than serious attitude towards their regular work," he conceded. "What about magicians?"

"You can do magic," she pointed out, continuing as he shook his head, "Yes, you can, you used to produce all sorts of things in that theatre, figures in the Gods, voices in the halls... I still don't know how the hell you did it but you had several of the staff thinking you were the ghost of some Victorian actor come back to haunt the place."

"Those were quite simple tricks; a child could have managed them. I'm hardly David Copperfield, and I am definitely not getting up on the stage to saw a woman in half, not even if you persuaded Carlotta to be my assistant," Erik said before she could argue. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I will admit though that the idea of knife-throwing under those circumstances has a certain attraction."

"That's a shame. I was just imagining you up there in a big cloak with some elaborate mask, wowing everyone as the master of illusion," Christine mused.

His expression was pained. "Please. I am serious artist, not a circus performer."

"I still think it's a good idea," she insisted as he carried on packing away his work. "Everyone could be involved, acts would only be one or two people so we could easily socially distance and it wouldn't be any more expensive to stage than this concert of yours. And the Vanburgh's programme has never been exclusively opera, after all."

Erik sighed. "Christine - "

"I could of course always ask Raoul to pitch it to his brother," she said, getting up and trailing her fingers idly along the keyboard of his piano. "I'm sure Phil would be interested; you know how much he likes showgirls and after so long away our ballet corps will be itching to take part..."

"Christine, I believe the word for what you are suggesting is blackmail."

She looked at him, eyes wide and innocent. "Is it really?"

"You know perfectly well that it is," he told her, pulling the laptop that sat on the desk towards him. He tapped at the keys for a few seconds, gaze averted, before he muttered, "I suppose it _might_ work."

Christine cupped a hand to her ear. "Sorry, what was that?"

She received a glare for her pains. "You heard. All right, I will consider it, but only if you and Meg can come up with a proper breakdown, with acts and costs. If you can prove to me that people will want to come and see such a show, _then_ I will put it before the producers, but I am making no promises. Is that understood?" Erik rolled his eyes when she threw her arms around his neck, planting a delighted kiss on his distorted cheek. "Oh, for goodness's sake; I haven't actually agreed to stage the blasted thing."

"No, but you will, because we'll sell it to you. Oh, I can't wait to see everyone again!" she exclaimed. "We've finally got something to work on!"

He shook his head. "I can't believe I'm even considering this. It will destroy my reputation. Me, directing a vaudeville show!"

"You know, I think Gigi got it wrong earlier," Christine said. "You're not Kermit."

Erik looked perplexed. "I'm very glad to hear it."

"No, you're Sam the Eagle," she continued, grinning when he glowered at her and she realised how apt the comparison was. "Grumpy and pedantic and desperate to keep culture alive in the face of low-brow trivialities."

"And that's a bad thing to be?"

"It is when you're going to be dealing with our own equivalents of Fozzie Bear and the Great Gonzo."

For a very long moment he just stared at her, and then, thankfully, he burst out laughing.


	15. Absent Friends

_02.47._

Christine sighed. It was only three minutes since she'd last looked at the clock. Around her the bedroom was still, faint lamplight through the curtains and the steady rumble of traffic reminders of the outside world. An emergency siren screamed past somewhere in the distance; even at this hour London was never quiet. For a while she just stared up at the ceiling, willing sleep to come, but her eyes refused to even feel tired; she tried snuggling down beneath the covers, concentrating on slowing her breathing, to no effect. Her brain refused to shut down, and three hours after going to bed she was still utterly wide awake.

Turning over she was annoyed to find that Erik wasn't having the same problem. He was stretched out on his back, one arm thrown above his head, and lay there dead to the world. Though he didn't snore, a circumstance for which she would be eternally grateful, the passage of air through the undeveloped side of his nose created a sound almost like purring; normally she found it quite soothing, but tonight she just wished he wasn't asleep so she could talk to him. And, she reluctantly admitted to herself, if he was awake too she wouldn't be feeling quite so alone. There was no time like the early hours of the morning for feeling as though you were the only person in the entire world, even when the one you loved most was lying there right next to you.

For a few minutes she considered 'accidentally' waking him up, but decided against it; she'd caused him enough disrupted sleep lately and he'd been dozing in the armchair even before they came upstairs. It was ridiculous; she'd spent years getting him to conform to normal patterns of eating and sleeping and now that he had she was practically wishing he was still the man who refused to rest, pushing himself for days on end until his body forcibly shut itself down. Of course she didn't want to return to that time, not now she had him happy and healthy, but just occasionally she couldn't help thinking that his old nocturnal tendencies would come in useful for situations like this.

She sat there watching him for a while, hugging her knees. Snuffling slightly he rolled over towards her; when he lay on this side his deformity was buried in the pillow and only the good part of his face was visible, a sight she still found fascinating after nearly eleven years of marriage. Without the distraction of the mask's sculpted frown she could properly see him, or rather what he might have been but for the indiscriminate hand of nature, could focus on his strong jaw and high cheekbone, the elegantly arched eyebrow and the surprising length of his lashes as they rested against his pale skin. It was one of the universe's terrible ironies that he would have been a very handsome man, but Christine had realised some considerable time ago that though she would have supported him had surgery to correct the damage been feasible, she had never longed for him to be whole. The two opposing halves of his face made up who he was, yin and yang, dark and light, someone she knew she wouldn't change for the world. She secretly loved seeing him like this, relaxed and unguarded as he was so rarely when awake and reminding her of their sleeping children. He frowned slightly and she wondered what he was dreaming about.

Daring another glance at the clock and reasoning that at least half an hour must have passed by now, she groaned when she saw the bright blue digital display:

_02.53._

There was no point staying here. As carefully as she could she slid from beneath the covers, pulling the duvet a bit further over to Erik's side to keep the foot that was hanging past the edge of the mattress warm; they'd had to buy a super king bed to accommodate his height, but his long limbs still somehow managed to escape its boundaries. Moments later she was creeping down the stairs, trying to avoid the squeaky floorboards and heading for the living room.

It looked abandoned when she turned on the light, choosing one of the table lamps instead of the glare of the overhead bulbs. Bright light would only make her even more wakeful. She hated coming downstairs at this time, preferring if she had to get a glass of water or a biscuit to grab what she needed and hurry back up, away from the emptiness and silence. In the dead of the night her own house felt somehow alien, as though when they were all asleep another family entirely might come out to live their own lives and she was disturbing them. It was fanciful, and when she once mentioned it to Erik he'd looked at her as if she were mad, but then he didn't mind the dark and the quiet; to her it felt unnatural.

She gave the cushions a needless plump and sank down on the sofa, curling up and wishing for a moment that they hadn't chosen leather; it was very chilly once the heating went off. Resting her head on one hand and telling herself sternly that this was stupid and she needed to start feeling drowsy she let her gaze roam idly round the room. She and Erik had decorated it together, though if she was completely honest he'd done the bulk of the work as she was seven months pregnant with Allegra at the time. The tasteful artworks and the mirror he had chosen, the latter surprising her; he claimed to have picked it for aesthetic reasons and she'd not bothered to question him further, liking the extra light it brought to the room. Her main contribution was the collection of framed photographs that covered the shelves and cabinets, pictures of sentimental value and milestones such as the girls when they were babies and her thirtieth birthday. There was a large wedding photo, as well, of the two of them embracing outside the church, showered in confetti; Christine had joked that the only time Erik looked comfortable all day was when he was kissing her and he hadn't denied it. It was a picture she still adored; she had deliberately walked up the aisle on his right so that when the time came the photographer would catch the real him and not the mask.

Beside it stood a smaller frame, and she found herself getting up to fetch it, realising at last why sleep was elusive tonight. In two days' time it would be the anniversary of her father's death from a cancer that neither of them had had any idea was there until it began its deadly work, slowly shutting down his body. She picked up the photo; it was of her parents on their wedding day, Mum in a classic eighties Princess Di meringue of a dress, the sleeves two enormous puffs of white satin, Dad looking smart and ever so proud, his tie properly knotted for once and his unruly curls specially trimmed for the occasion. Her eyes prickled and she brushed at them with the back of her hand as a sob welled in her chest, grief for the father who for twenty years had been her whole world and the mother she barely remembered suddenly cutting deep and raw even after all this time. One finger traced Gustave Daae's face and a tear splashed onto the glass that covered the picture.

"Oh, Daddy," she whispered, her voice sounding small and lonely in the empty room. "Where did the time go?"

Of course there was no answer. The dead can neither hear nor speak.

Christine sank down on the hearthrug, barely noticing that she still instinctively moved through a plié even though it was some years since she left the corps de ballet. Her hands reached for the old photo albums that lived on the bottom shelf of the bookcase and pulled them out, turning over the pages and reliving both genuine memories and those she almost had, relived so many times through the recollections of others. There were the family holidays; at first with her mother, Christina (always Tina to everyone) Daae holding two-year-old Christine on the back of a fibreglass zebra on the Isle of Wight, hand in hand as they picked the Queen's daisies on the lawn at Sandringham, and then, a year or two later, just Christine alone, her father always behind the camera until she was old enough to take photos for herself. On the odd occasion he would put the camera on a timer and take a picture of them both, managing to either cut off the tops of their heads or catch them pulling funny faces. Despite the tears that were still brimming in her eyes, she found herself smiling at the memory; he never had been any good as a photographer, even with a simple point and click model, often somehow managing to tangle the film when he changed it. There was her first day at school, the time she won a prize for singing in a talent show, and with her friends, aged sixteen and all dolled up ready for their leaving dance.

The albums were still spread around her sometime later when she heard the door open and looked round to see a bleary-eyed Erik standing there, his pyjama collar sticking out of his dressing gown and a mug in each hand. He crossed the room to deposit them on the coffee table and, glancing at her sitting on the floor and considering whether or not to join her for a moment, opted for the sofa.

"We seem to making a habit of this," he remarked, trying to stifle a yawn and nudging one of the mugs towards her.

"I'm sorry. Did I disturb you?"

He shook his head. "I woke up and you weren't there. What's the matter – another dream?"

"No, not this time. I just couldn't sleep." Christine took the mug and sniffed. "Warm milk?"

"It's good for insomnia, apparently. Mind you, so is counting sheep and that never did anyone any good to my knowledge." Erik leaned forward, lifting one of the photo albums. "You still miss him," he said, and it wasn't a question. Though they hadn't discussed the subject much in recent years he knew just how close she had been to her father; it had after all been her struggle to cope with Gustave's death that brought them together in the first place.

She sighed. "All the time. You'd think it would get easier after so long, but grief never really seems to go away; you just get better at living with it. I still think of things I want to say to him, see things that would have made him laugh. Hear music that reminds me of how he used to play."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing."

"Oh, I know it's not. The last thing I would ever want to do is forget him, but sometimes I wonder if thinking of him so often just makes it harder, you know?"

He leaned back against the cushions, flicking through the pages, and sighed. "I imagine it might be the case, but to be honest that one is a little outside my experience. I've never had anyone I would truly grieve for until now."

Christine scooted closer, reaching for his hand. "Of course. That was careless of me, sorry."

"Not your fault," he said lightly. "You were lucky to have parents who loved you so much that you would feel their loss so keenly, even after all this time." His fingers tightened around hers. "If it's anything like the way I know I would feel if I lost you then it must be painful beyond words."

She offered him a tearful smile. "It might be outside your experience, but you do understand," she replied, adding after taking a deep and shaky breath, "I wish he was still here, so the girls could know him, so he could meet you and know that I married the right man. He used to worry about that when I was growing up, scared that whoever I ended up with wouldn't be worthy of me."

"In that case I'm sure he would be thrilled to know that you shackled yourself to a deformed recluse who was so nervous of speaking to you face to face that he used ludicrous subterfuge in order to spend time with you," Erik observed, raising an eyebrow.

"It's too early for me to even think about arguing with you over that," she told him. "Dad would have approved of you, I'm positive he would; he never judged by appearances and I know he would have loved to be able to play music with someone else who felt the same passion about it."

"And would he have thought a man who lived like a rat beneath a theatre able to provide for his only daughter?"

"Didn't we have this conversation before, when you asked me to marry you?" Christine asked, getting up to sit beside him on the sofa. "It wasn't as if Mr McIntyre didn't know you were there; you were his partner, for goodness's sake, and a successful composer in your own right. So what if you chose to live where you did? That flat was far better fitted out than any of the ones I used to rent, even if it didn't have windows. And I forgave you for the pretence years ago; I know why you did it. In fact, I still think it was quite sweet that you were too shy to just come out and talk to me."

He glanced at her in surprise. "Sweet? Me?"

"Yes." She leant her head against his shoulder. "You can be sometimes, you know." When he made an aggrieved noise she just laughed. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"Thank goodness for that. I do have a fearsome reputation to maintain."

Christine snorted. "Yeah, right," she said, turning another page of the album.

"Excuse me?"

She looked up to see him frowning. "You may have a professional reputation as an aloof, unapproachable genius, buster, but I live with you, remember? You don't scare me, especially when you've just rolled out of bed."

"Oh, really?" He loomed over her menacingly, one arm around her back and the other across her thighs, effectively trapping her in place, his mismatched gaze fixed intently on hers. "How about now?"

"Nope. I know how to tame the beast." Before he could even open his mouth to dispute the statement she reached up and grabbed the back of his head, leaning him down so she could kiss him with as much ardour as she could manage at four o'clock in the morning. Starved of affection as he had been for so much of his life, he never failed to melt at her touch. When she let him go she rested her forehead against his. "Believe me now?"

"Absolutely," he replied breathlessly.

"Good." With another quick peck on the lips she snuggled up to him again, taking back the photo album. From the corner of her eye she could see Erik shaking his head, running a hand down his face, and she grinned to herself. "It's a shame we don't have any pictures of you to add to this."

He grimaced. "We didn't have a camera, thankfully."

"Pity. I would have liked to see you as a little boy."

"Believe me, you wouldn't," he said, finality in his tone. He forestalled the objection she was about to make by changing tack and adding, "Perhaps though we should make one of these for the girls, as something for them to look back on. We've phones full of photos, but nothing ever gets done with them; by the time they become nostalgic about their childhoods we might not be able to access the pictures at all."

"That's true. I wonder sometimes if we take too many these days," Christine mused. "Pictures meant more when you could only take so many at a time; you had to be choosier about your subjects."

"Indeed. I suppose it _is_ still possible to buy photo albums somewhere."

"I've seen nice scrapbooks online. We could make it a family project," she suggested.

The corner of Erik's mouth lifted and he kissed her on the end of her nose. "I think that's a wonderful idea." His gaze dropped to the pages spread open on her lap; on one of them was a picture of her on a donkey at the seaside. Christine remembered that day well; it had been hot and they went swimming in the sea, following it with fish and chips for dinner and a huge ice cream. She was waving animatedly towards the lens, and the photo was slightly skewed as her father had held the camera in one hand to wave back. For a moment the tears welled up again and she forced them down. Erik twisted one of her curls around his finger. "Has it been worrying you that you can't visit his grave on Tuesday?"

"A little, but there's nothing I can do about it, is there? Dad wouldn't want me getting a fine just to lay some flowers." She sighed. "It's funny; part of me is wishing he was still here and the rest is almost glad he isn't, not with what's been happening. He'd be in a complete panic and I would have been worrying about him constantly, wondering how he was coping on his own."

"He wouldn't have had to," Erik said, and she looked up at him, eyebrows raised in question. "Well, surely as soon as the madness started we would have had him to live here, with us, so he wouldn't _be_ on his own."

"We didn't do that with Angela," Christine pointed out.

"Angela is not your father. She is perfectly able to fend for herself."

"You make her sound like a stray cat," she complained. "She is your mother, when all is said and done."

"And it's precisely because she's my mother that we can't live under the same roof; the odd occasion she's come to stay must have proved that point. I've made sure she is safe, that she has everything she needs, and let her see the girls, but having her here would be a step too far. From what you have told me, your father would probably have been a much more amenable house guest," he added. "And besides, you would have wanted him here; I know that for a fact."

"Well, yes. Yes, I would." She laced her fingers through his and squeezed them tightly. "Thank you. I think the two of you would have got on well. You have a lot in common."

"One of those things being you," he told her gently, stroking her hair with his other hand. "Once we're all released from this stay at home order we'll go straight up to the cemetery, pay our respects and take a long walk, just the two of us."

Christine closed her eyes. "That sounds wonderful."

"And now," Erik said before she could become too comfortable, getting to his feet and pulling her up with him, "I think it's high time we went back upstairs. I've only had about four hours' sleep and it's freezing in here."

"You're cold? Since when do you get cold?" she asked in disbelief as he led her towards the door. Glancing briefly over her shoulder at the mess they'd left behind she decided the mugs and photo albums could be cleared away in the morning; the last thing she felt like doing was tidying up.

"Since I became an old man too fond of his own comfort," he retorted. "And since my wife started having night-time discussions in unheated rooms."

"A few years ago you used to stay up all night on a regular basis. In fact, you hardly ever saw daylight."

He arched an eyebrow. "A few years ago I didn't have two daughters expecting me to get up early so that they can give you breakfast in bed for Mother's Day."

"Oh." She considered that carefully. "Well, in that case maybe we had better go up after all. I wouldn't want to disappoint them."

Erik just rolled his eyes, and she hid her smile behind one hand.


End file.
